[Closed, Mature] Once More to See You

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Any jokes she might have made about what she would wear in that nebulous, dream-spun "next time" were forestalled by her increased sharpness of focus on the "this time" in front of her. The moment to tell Em of all the elaborate gowns she could wear, if he so enjoyed the puzzle of removing them, passed pleasantly out of reach. She liked being contrary just as much as he did, sometimes—this didn't feel like one of those times.

Cerise made her claim on his time, half convinced Em would take the chance then to tell her that she couldn't stay. Maybe not with her blouse undone; if he said that now, she might have punched him square in that pretty mouth. No matter how fond she was of it, no matter how much she liked all the things he usually used it for. But his eyebrow pulled up in that way he had, expressive and endearing, and he looked up at her instead. The gold of them seemed brighter than usual; she could feel the sigh underneath of her hands.

Do you think I'm going to leave, after all this? she wanted to demand. You'd have to tell me to go. No, you'd have to drag me out—you know how stubborn I am, don't you? The words sat somewhere between her heart and her mouth. Cerise knew she'd never say them, not quite like that. Her fingers spread up over his chest, mapping out every ridge and dip and all the landmarks along the way.

She grinned when she leaned in, a mix of wicked and soft. And of course he didn't pause, not even for a moment. Frustratingly, wonderfully taking it in stride, tilting his head. Practice, she thought, made perfect; she focused only on the practice she knew about, and not what she didn't. When he shifted she laughed, surprised, the sound muffled by his mouth. She found herself on his lap, settling skirt and limbs both to get as close as she could. The hand on his back held her in place.

"You keep making me promises like that, and I don't know how I'm ever going to leave."

This was much better, she whole-heartedly agreed. It had been a long time since she felt this kind of heat in her blood, the way all of it seemed to settle over her skin, the rapid drumming of her heart. Only you, she thought, too sentimental to bear being said out loud. True, maybe. Maybe one day she might have properly moved on, found somebody else. Emiel Emmerson certainly wasn't the only handsome man in the world. It just felt like he might be, right now. The only one who mattered. But just because she was, factually, a schoolgirl didn't mean she had to talk like one.

She hadn't wanted to move on, though, not one tiny inch. Hadn't wanted to find someone else, hadn't wanted any of the whole last year and a half. She had filled it with school and with dueling and with all the strange twists of her life. And she hadn't thought of him, not every day, of that not-quite-a-year they'd had. Just enough.

Cerise had never been quite so frustrated with the dictates of fashion in her entire life. His breath turned heavy, impatient. That was, really, all that she could bear. Impossible, terrible, frustrating Emiel—she loved him for being every one of these things, honestly. Or she had, and she thought she still did. Unless more had changed than it seemed like. Unless he'd grown away from her, somewhere her hands couldn't really reach after all. The thought hit her somewhere still sore; she shoved it aside for being as unnecessary as her blouse and everything underneath it in this moment. The layers were peeled off and tossed carelessly aside; she didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to where they landed.

Impatient as she was, as much as she had growled and groused and sighed at Em for taking his time, Cerise found herself lingering a little in this moment. Sprawled out in that sort of comfortable discomfort on Em's lap, threading the fingers of one hand (carefully) through his violet hair. Holding him close. He could assuredly feel the strength and speed of her heartbeat, the way it clamored against her ribcage. She turned her head to brush her mouth softly over that bruise above his eyebrow. As an afterthought, she reached up and shook out all of her hair, longer and wilder than it seemed when she had it pulled ruthlessly up on the back of her head.

"Was that enough fun for you?" she teased, her mouth hovering over his ear. The chaos of her dark curls tumbled around them. Cerise arched her back, pressing up as close as she could get. Settling a little deliberately, a little dramatically, over his lap again. More than a little wickedly, too. "Or did you want more buttons to undo?"

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Ient gonna make you—" Leave, he didn't finish whispering, somewhat distracted, ignoring the way his lungs ached as if he'd held his breath. She'd surely leave again or end up taken for good, out of his reach soon enough. Eventually, she'd graduate. Eventually, she'd be married off. This were the way of things for gollies, an' probably one of the reasons their illicit relationship 'd been snuffed out so quickly in the first place. There weren't any future in it, not now, not ever, an' even as Cerise settled jus' so in his lap, there weren't any point in dwellin' on the past, neither. Takin' this present as it was were pretty much all they both had, an' at this moment, body shiftin' against his at the peelin' away of layers with such calculated, mischevious slowness, it weren't a bad sorta present to be clingin' to, really.

Em savored the flutter of her pulse, ticklin' against his lips an' gently tangible beneath his hands, fingers still seekin' for all that skin.

Like rediscoverin' some forgotten landscape, he made sure it were obvious how much he'd missed the once-familiar shape of the dark-haired young woman, palms driftin' over everythin' as if tangibly appreciatin' some archaeological wonder. He smiled at the brush of her lips, tilting his head to guide the way she threaded through his violet hair with a hum, only to feel her reach away, to reach toward her own head. Amber eyes opened and he angled his chin up a lil' with some kinda unspoken greed, eager to be watchin' that dark cascade of curls rush downward and grinnin' about it all stupid-like, jus' as enamored as ever.

Should he have felt a pina manna guilty 'bout realizin' jus' how he were still thrilled with every soft, twisted strand? Should he have really dwelled on how angry he'd been when all the scandalous connection they'd grown together were taken from his hands? Should he have been a bit disappointed in himself for ne lettin' as much of all this go as everyone told him he should have?

Probably. Maybe. Dze.

What did it matter now, anyway? There weren't anythin' 'bout what they'd shared since they met that wasn't some shade 'f scandal, from her shovin' a book in his face to them enjoyin' each others' uninhibited company.

Were this new?

Ne.

Were it different?

Oes, he felt it. He knew.

He might've sighed, but she teased him, breath tickling his ear causin' him to hum instead, especially when she moved jus' a lil' more—jus' a lil' more, uh, purposefully. Maybe he whispered a curse or two, sputtering out a roguish laugh at her tauntin' words. That were it. It weren't at all a mystery, honestly, how much fun Em were havin', an' he weren't shy 'bout it, neither. Instead, he tsk'd, bright gaze drawn to her face as he leaned away, rolling his eyes and simply falling backwards, mocking exhaustion in the most ridiculous of ways but also totally enjoyin' the view,

"Oh, ne. I'm so outta practice with all this fancy dress, Cerise. Maybe I need a nap—it's been such a clockin' ridiculous evenin', what with work an' jail an' all—" Even as he spoke, husky and quiet, the hands he'd tossed so dramatically onto his tousled sheets couldn't lie any better than the rest of him at this moment, restlessly wanderin' back up from her knees, over her thighs, explorin' higher with devious familiarity and lingerin' there before driftin' down again, ready to work at removin' more clothes,

"—I'd rather less buttons. I'd rather jus' get you outta everythin' at this point, ye chen. I mean, we're 'bout even. There should be less from here on out—let's jus' see what's left, hmm?"

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, The Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

After so long, Cerise hadn't been sure that would work the same way it had before. He'd always seemed—interested, so to speak. A warm, pleasant feeling curled all through her heart and her blood at the look on his face when she took her hair down; it felt a little more worth it that she'd never gotten tired enough of it to cut it all off after all. Not that she'd kept it for him. No, she'd had no reason to do that—but it worked out now, all the same. She would put up with a lot of things to have Em look at her like that.

This should have been stranger, she thought, or more familiar. Instead, it was a mix of both, the heady kind of thrill at Em's hands on every bit of her skin that got revealed. Like picking a book up you'd read over and over long ago and remembering all the parts you'd forgotten. All the ones that felt like they fit a little better now, too. Not new, and not the same either. Was this scar new, or had she just forgotten it? This mole, that freckle?

Would they, in time, be able to become familiar and known to her again? She wanted them to be, so very badly. He hadn't quite finished what he'd started to say, that "ent gonna make you". Make her what—leave? Cerise couldn't decide if she thought he'd really missed her as much as she wanted him to. Cerise could, in fact, barely decide how much she wanted him to have missed her at all. Maybe it would have been better if the answer was that he hadn't; the greedy, selfish, and much larger part of her wanted him to have missed her terribly, because she had missed him.

From her position straddled across Em's lap, his hips between her knees, she had very few real doubts about how much fun was being had here, by anyone. She still leaned forward, letting her mouth just barely brush over the shell of his ear, and asked. She liked the way he swore, liked the way he laughed. She even liked the way he rolled his eyes and fell backwards like he was overcome by some kind of delicate fainting spell. Cerise spared a brief thought of concern for the back of his head and the burns all across his shoulders, but if he didn't mind then she didn't either.

There were, after all, absolutely worse sights than Emiel on his back, all that bright violet hair spread out around him. She could have leaned forward, but she took a moment to appreciate the view. Cerise had a dream like this, once or twice. Or more times than that, maybe, in the last year and a half. The look on her face was torn somewhere between wicked and sweet. There was no way he could be that she wouldn't like looking at, she thought. At least, she had yet to find one—excepting when she couldn't see him at all.

Gods, she wasn't even drunk.

"Out of practice? Could've fooled me." She'd meant it to sound teasing. Mostly, it did. A little, there was something else that she didn't really want him to hear. Cerise brought her hands up instead to splay out on his chest again, breath catching when his hands slid up over her thighs and stopped, just so. Absolutely maddening.

"I don't think we're even, still, but—I wouldn't complain about less on you." There was, she felt, very little point in pretending at being shy now. Helpfully, she decided to lean forward and kiss him. To keep him focused on doing things, and not saying things, no matter how much she liked listening to him talk. And less helpfully, she didn't linger long on his mouth, but moved downwards slowly and deliberately. She had one hand on his face, and the other braced her against the plane of his chest; she thought, idly, about seeing if she could count every freckle on both.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Ient ever made a habit of undressin' jent, other than undressin' you an' that damn uniform—" Emiel couldn't help but make a teasing face at her, lookin' up at her above him when she called him out on his talent when it came to removin' the fancy clothing she chose to layer herself in. He stuck out his tongue, affordin' himself the chance to do so while he slid his rough palms up over the smooth, pale skin of her thighs. Fingertips tickled, featherlight an' totally coy, before they set 'bout searchin' for how to separate her from the rest of what she were wearin'.

If layin' on his back were uncomfortable, it were a small price worth payin'. If the burned skin between his shoulder blades or the cuts along the back of his scalp stung, he didn't care. Nothin' compared to heartache, honestly, an' he were the type to gladly have his body broken instead of that metaphorical organ that fluttered jus' as rapidly as the real thing beneath his sternum.

Cerise's hands wandered over his chest an' he enjoyed that look on her face more 'n he should've—nostalgia, maybe that's what it were. She hadn't smashed her face into that ersehole golly's pretty nose or felt that flash of alcohol fire, but there were a hint of pain beneath those lovely flushed, sharp features he'd done his best to stop carin' 'bout. She'd been hurt, too, an' he knew that now, jus' a pina manna over a year ago, an' like the nicks and imperfections her fingertips traced over so alluringly, she couldn't hide it all from him, neither.

It weren't worth talkin' 'bout anyway—how they'd felt, the decisions that were made without their permission, how they found themselves together now.

What was there to say, anyway?

They were past stupid platitudes, honestly. There weren't any point in apologizin' for choices they'd not made so much as been made to choose. Now were time for showin', 'cause showin' were often far more expressive than sayin' anyway.

And, gods, there were probably too much he wanted to be doin' in this moment, here like this.

Em smiled slowly at her words, "I ent really want to be listenin' to you complain, neither. Go on, then. Help a kov out, hmm? We'll make a fair trade of things, ye chen." He mumbled most of it against her lips, working toward his goal of getting her out of her skirts, but she moved away instead. He let his hands fall away without objection, grinnin' like a chrove. The purple-haired wick tilted his head to kiss her palm, angling his amber gaze just so as if to watch her, breath hitching while she meandered kisses over all the freckled landscape that ended abruptly at the hem of his trousers.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, The Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Cerise grinned, and then she laughed when Em stuck his tongue out at her. Never made a habit, was it? She knew that, or she thought she did—Em could be reckless, but he wasn't really that stupid—and some greedy little part of her was pleased to hear it anyway. She wanted, oh Lady help her but she wanted, to be an exception. You couldn't forget exceptions, could you? No matter how many others there were. The laughter didn't last long, but the smile stayed in the wake of his hands along her thighs.

"Just natural talent then," she carried on, like the joke could make up for the flush in her face, the way she squirmed just a little at the barely-there drag of his fingertips. She didn't think she had it in her to play it particularly cool even if she wanted to, not for him, but it had been a long time since she'd felt exposed in this way, too. And not just because her blouse was somewhere on the floor, either.

No point in worrying about that, or anything before or after right now. She'd come back around to both soon enough; she could try to hold it off though. She could give herself something else to do, for example. Deliberate and slow, despite every part of her that wanted to be neither of those things. Call it an exercise in self-discipline, maybe; really, she just didn't want this to end a moment before it had to.

"I can be helpful," she offered; she'd tried to sound teasing, but her voice broke over the syllables and betrayed her. Well, that was why she wasn't trying to use her mouth for conversation. The path of her kisses moved over warm skin and taut muscle; Cerise was entirely too happy to remind herself of all how much she appreciated every freckled inch of it.

When she got as low as she could go before fabric once again got in her way, Cerise paused. Not teasing, though she'd go along with that as a pretense if she needed to. It just felt significant, in some weird, stupid way. Like if she went any further than this, she'd be crossing more lines than just the one delineated by skirts or trousers or anything else either one of them had on. Lines she didn't think anyone could pull her back from in anything close to one piece.

Oh, she wanted him very badly—and not in some romantic, even vaguely appropriate way either. On a base level, an animal level, she did, more than anything. But also, yes, in that sort of soft-headed tally novel way, too. I missed you, she wanted to say but she bit her lip against it so she wouldn't. I missed this, and I missed your voice and your stupid face and talking to you, and there has been this idiotic hole in me nobody else can fill. Was that all right?

Stupid; it was all stupid. She wasn't that kind of girl, except when it turned out abruptly that she most definitely was. Cerise took a breath, and she sat up a little. To give herself more room, because before she could think too much further on lines or holes or her and her stupid feelings, her hands were at his buttons with as much efficiency as she could muster right now.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Oes. Talent." Preened the purple-haired wick with the most ridiculous of grins, wicked and humored all at the same time. Ah, maybe he'd missed this kind a tumbletalk, this kind of bedroom banter the sharp-tongued Miss Vauquelin were so damn good at. He even chuckled 'bout it, but it were jus' a pina mana breathless because of the way she were so clockin' comfortable straddlin' his hips.

Gods.

"Helpful, mmmhmm." He murmured, archin' a dark eyebrow at the waiver in the dark-haired woman's voice. It weren't all teasin' an' lighthearted talk, this. It weren't all jus' messin' around, an' Emiel weren't sure whether to be sad or relieved over that epiphany. Well, he couldn't really be sad, ne when Cerise shifted, slidin' away from reach of his hands to blaze some achin' slow trail of kisses away from his mouth. Like she'd been starin' at a map for so long, her lips traced over his freckled topography with an intoxicatin' mixture of familiarity an' reacquaintance, "Issat what you wanna call it? Helpin'? Boemo."

He only pouted a pina mana, disappointed that he couldn't quite yet slip her free of her skirt, that he hadn't quite yet finished undressin' her first. One hand brushed over his face, fingers shovin' strands of purple from his face once she'd drifted from his lips while the other restlessly toyed with tousled sheets beneath him.

She traveled downward, ne't all waywardly neither, an' heat trickled through his veins, jus' as singular in its warm direction as the young golly were in hers. Em's teeth caught his lower lip in anticipation, unintentionally mirrorin' her expression when she paused, catchin' that gold ring, an' he tilted his head jus' enough so he could watch, even if really all he got an amber eyeful of were dark curls an' skin.

If there'd been any hint of nostalgia this evenin', it were bein' burned away mant quick with the tickle of Cerise's breath an' the purposeful way she sat up a lil', to see what she were doin'. If there were lines bein' crossed, he'd already crossed more than a few tonight, so a few more weren't even gonna matter, eager as he was to blur the physical distinction between his body and Cerise's—ne outta some social rebellious, intellectual need, either, but definitely outta some selfishly primal desire that weren't at all concerned with changin' the way Vita turned in Anaxas right now.

Oes, it were 'bout time, he could've said, tauntin' her with the kinda husky growl he knew it would've left his mouth like, but he chose instead to shift his hips jus'so, makin' sure one of her palms felt exactly what she were goin' for. His grin returned, more stupid than wicked now, stupid with want, an' both his hands dragged over his own self, trailed lightly over her arms, an' hooked thumbs between layers of fabric, offerin' to be actually helpful. Obviously.

Emiel even waggled his eyebrows about it, preparin' to make a show of shimmyin' free should she want one, ne like he'd wait for her to ask.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, The Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Cerise chose not to dignify that with a response. Chose being the operative word—it's not that she couldn't, because her voice had already broken up once when she tried to make the joke in the first place. That would be ridiculous. So that wasn't what it was, at all. It's just that she didn't want to encourage him. That was also why she didn't smile when he pouted the smallest bit as she moved away, skirt still on.

Well, he could pout all he wanted. She didn't think he would for long. At least she hoped not; she would be more than a little annoyed if he did. Cerise looked up through the fringe of her dark eyelashes when she paused, catching the blurry form of his face. Lip in his teeth, a flash of bright gold. Not pouting anymore, then; good.

There was no clever comment, no joke or taunt. Just a shift of his hips that made sure there was no mystery where she was going. A smile split her face, and the smallest huff of fond laughter; he'd somehow managed to be ridiculous without saying a single word. How very Em of him. She liked every smile he ever had, from wicked to divine, but that one right now was perhaps her favorite of all. No pretense or show, just some stupid look on the face that was still, somehow, the dearest to her in all of Vita. Even when he did that with his eyebrows. What a ridiculous man. What a ridiculous, charming, wonderful man; she did adore him rather utterly.

"Now who's trying to be helpful," she murmured, and she laughed. She could still feel the ghost of where he'd run his hands over her arms. He had barely touched her at all, really, she thought with a wry kind of smile, and she was already falling to pieces. In her own defense, it had been quite a while. In her own defense, she never had been very good at keeping a level head around him. That was rather how they got here in the first place. She couldn't hide it anyway; it spilled out of her heart and onto her face and her field, too. Still all tangled up with Em's, comfortable and intimate as if it were the most natural thing in the whole world.

He was helpful though, sort of. Theatrical help, but help all the same. Em could make whatever kind of show he wanted out of it. She was something of a captive audience. Cerise thought it best to just get out of his way, since he was so determined to be absurd. Also, it would have been difficult to get his trousers off if she was still physically in the way. Practicalities still applied, even when you wanted something so bad you thought you might die of it.

There was no possible way her face didn't look equally as stupid as Em's did, honestly. She felt stupid, overwhelmed by every freckle and lean line, knocking every proper thought she had clean out of her skull. Cerise hardly waited for him to finish shimmying out of all that unnecessary fabric before she leaned forward and kissed him again, hot and lingering. Pressing herself up against him, losing herself a little in the very simple pleasure of feeling his skin against hers.

Although, not so much of herself that one of her hands didn't meander back down in a very deliberate drag down to his hip, and then a little further still. Her touch was light, but more teasing than unsure. "I missed you," she said, quietly. She hadn't quite meant to, but she couldn't seem to help it.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"This ent helpin'? Epaemo, macha." If Emiel could do nothin' else, it were damn easy to purr a pina mana husky Tek an' pretend to pout, even if it were only for a few fluttery, rapid heartbeats. She kept smilin', kept laughin', an' the purple-haired wick weren't sure if it hurt more with each light note of her amusement or if it turned him on more instead.

Both. Godsdamnit.

Definitely both.

He couldn't remember jus' quite when he'd last heard her laugh, jus' when this kinda smile softened the sharp features of Cerise, especially ne this close to his person, an' yet he realized he didn't want to forget this time. He didn't want to forget right now. Ne that he'd really forgotten back then so much as all that time seemed to bleed together, blurrin' into one long memory he'd never been able to entirely loosen his grip on, ne matter how many folks 'd told him to fuckin' let go.

He never should've held on in the first place, not to some politician's daughter, not to some golly. He'd jus' never been able to care much 'bout should'ves when around her, an' he'd certainly fussed over too many could'ves once they were apart.

Mayhaps that's all the pair of 'em were really good for—hurtin' each other in all the right ways—but it'd been so long since he'd felt those swirlin' eddies of emotion in her field that were mixed with his like he were mixin' Starflies for blushin' fifth forms at the bar. It'd been jus' as long since he'd felt that warm brush of her lips anywhere but replayed in his mind on lonely nights that he could ignore jus' how much his chest ached beneath the tickle of dark curls for now.

Emiel sighed dramatically, eyes flutterin' with obvious relief once her fingers finally gave him jus' a pina mana breathin' room so to speak, an' while he would've teased her with somethin' wittier than jus' a coy wagglin' of his eyebrows, but Cerise shifted over him, slidin' up on her knees to hover an' lean jus' as his fingers curled into the hem of his own trousers. He made sure to give her the show he wanted to, as if his unmade bed in his decent flat were a stage an' this were a sold out performance. The purple-haired wick might've even chuckled at that incredibly unhelpful, totally wicked, and very needful slap of warm skin against his abdomen, jus' as full of trouble as ever.

Ignorin' the sting of the back of his scalp when he tilted his head, quick-like an' ready, he were there to catch the young woman's lips without concern for gentleness, inhalin' sharply 'cause he'd already been burned once tonight but this kinda heat weren't the same. It were better, an' he couldn't help the half-groan, half-sigh of desire ('cause it weren't at all nostalgia, ne clockin' way) when Cerise poured her perfect lil' self across his chest, leanin' closer still even while he kicked the last few inches of his pants from his ankles without a hint of grace and shuffled their crumpled mess to the floor. Blurrin' those stupid lines between their bodies were so much easier this way, considerin' how much society hadn't gotten it right yet but they'd managed to get it so, so right for so long.

He remembered.

He were rememberin' again.

"Oes, did you? I couldn't tell—" He purred, mostly against her lips, leanin' into her touch 'cause she were tauntin' him an' he'd jus'bout had it playin' it soft-like. She knew exactly what she were doin' by the feel o' things—she remembered, too. He let her take her time, anyway, if only 'cause they had so much lost time to make up for. So clockin' much it felt like, maybe in this moment, more than it had in almost an entire year. Sure, he'd noticed, but, well, he'd not let himself really feel the passage of time.

Too much shit 'd gotten in the way—

"—ne—"

Em didn't want his sigh to sound teary, jus' thoroughly impatient now, her light touch too damn much when his hands felt like they were jus' a mant manna too idle, "—I chen. 'Cause I missed you, too."

They'd been apart long enough, an' his breath hitched, more like shuddered in his chest all ragged an' eager while he made short work of fastenings without lookin', strugglin' to focus on the task he'd given himself as his fingers curled into the layers of her skirt 'cause he'd promised to return the favor, after all, "C'mon, keep helpin' a kov out here by helpin' yourself outta the rest of this fancy spitch."

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, The Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

There was nothing like gentleness when Em kissed her back. Cerise thought she was grateful; enough of her felt soft and delicate that if he handled her with that kind of care she thought she would come too undone even for this. She had gotten her crying out of the way before she ever went to the station, in private, where that belonged. Emiel kept laughing and smiling at her, and she wanted that to continue. To burn all the murkier things between them out of her, at least for a little while.

Some part of her knew that probably wasn't right. That some things had to be talked about, and probably should be more than they had done before she poured herself over him like this. But that was hard and this—this wasn't easy, not quite, but it was good. Good and right, just the way she had always thought things between them were when the whole rest of the world wasn't trying to get in their way. Not perfect, but right.

Was it frustration (and she was being frustrating, absolutely on purpose) or sentiment in that sigh? A little of both; that was fine. She could handle one if it came with the other, could at least sort of get a grip of the swell of all her feelings if she could channel them through the needs of her body. No point in separating them anyway, they were too tangled up for that. Both made her breath catch and her heart skip when Em said that simple little thing that almost unraveled her even though he'd said it before: I missed you, too.

So there was that.

"Fair is fair," she agreed, finding a hungry kind of grin somewhere in the swirl of everything else. She squashed the urge to make her own kind of show out of peeling off skirt and petticoat and every other suddenly pointless scrap of fabric on her. Cerise didn't really quite have Emiel's flair for the dramatic though, so it was better that she just made efficient work of buttons and laces, letting Em help as much as he felt like helping.

Any distance between them was growing rapidly more intolerable. There had been plenty, a lifetime's worth of it as far as she was concerned, in the year she couldn't help but feel like they'd lost. Her skirt dropped to the floor, and her petticoat with the holes in it from leaving it out where Sish could get to it, and all the rest. Then there was nothing else, just her. Just Cerise and Just Emiel.

"Happy now? Even, you think?" She asked the question with an arch of her eyebrows, but she didn't wait for the answer. Distance, she thought again, and drew herself in to close it. With her mouth on his jaw, her hands running up his arms and pulling him closer, too.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

"Ther'ent ever gonna be somethin' like even between us, ye chen, ne really—" Emiel couldn't hold it in even if he'd wanted to, not once there weren't anythin' left between th' two of 'em. His bright gaze'd watched every movement when she'd finally leaned away, followin' the graceful flow of pale skin, of hands that looked delicate but weren't, grinnin' when she'd skipped the show an' just shimmied herself outta all those godsbedamned layers. He'd even given her all the best help he possibly could've, given their current situation: touchin' all the wrong places in all the right ways, totally gettin' in the way of everythin' just to run rough palms over all that smooth flesh he couldn't even lie 'bout missin'.

Ne, the words jus' tumbled out, softer in sound than the edges that they carried, "—but, gods, I'm clockin' happy with as close as we can get, eh? Always have been, Cerise."

The purple-haired wick growled most 'f the last of it, anyway, ragged breath ticklin' dark curls when the young woman curled closer, closed the distance neither of them 'd wanted but neither of them really knew how to solve. Still didn't. Ne really. But, clock it all if they'd never hated givin' it an honest try. Or two. Or whatever.

Em hummed at the brush of lips along the stubble of his jaw, aware that if he left her too much room to object, too much room to let his honest statement open old hurts they'd already poked an' prodded at enough already, well, shit, they'd jus' be exchangin' sentiments for whatever was left of the night.

An' nobody wanted that.

Ne. He were certain they both were wantin' somethin' else.

"N'even yet. Ask again later." He taunted, sighin' at the pressin' of skin against skin that his motion purposefully initiated, bodies warm an' unbound from social bias with all those clothes on the floor, ne longer defined by race 'r status. Truth be told, he jus' wanted to do more kissin' an' less talkin', lettin' her pull him closer, settlin' into somethin'—anythin'— comfortable so long as it were tangled together. His hands wandered, more purposeful than teasin' now, enjoyin' rediscoverin' everythin' he'd missed an' curlin' jus' a pina manna to occupy her mouth with his lest she think he were at all interested in any more conversation.

Maybe he should've been in more of a hurry, maybe Emiel should've wanted to rush to make up for lost time, but he jus' couldn't imagine. He'd never rushed through a book—n'even that first book. He'd jus' been eager to read it. He didn't know why, ne then. But he knew now. He weren't able to forget, apparently. An' so he lingered, perhaps a bit more rough now that soft pretenses were outta the way.

Eventually, unconcerned 'bout anyone's need to breathe, he'd shift his hips an' roll that lovely dark-haired creature over beneath him jus' so he could tug himself from her lips an' remap his memory of the entire landscape of her body, one kiss at a time. Maybe he grinned a lil' here an' there, quite sure his tongue remembered a few favorite landmarks along the way.