To my dear friend ScorpionMother and all of those who like us have been craving for a little something like this to happen on our favorite show.
Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
- Theda
Vanessa Ives could feel it and it was exhilarating! She could feel in her bones, in the very air she breathed that his presence was in London once again. She wanted—and believed she should feel angry and betrayed by him, she should feel the coolness and disappointment that came with his rejection of her, almost a year ago. Yet, her female body betrayed her in such a way that to stand on the top of the staircase of Grandage Place was an inner, bloody battle. Vanessa's mind wanted her to hide in her bedroom—careless of Mr. Chandler, indifferent towards his arrival, yet her heart and skin ached and fought to be there, to be the firsts to feel the flurry and the warmth that his very person brought upon her senses. Her eyes wanted to be the firsts to greet him—to take in the living, breathing, true presence of him. Her hands wanted to be the firsts to hold him, and her fingers to run through his soft dark hair. Her voice wanted to be the first to utter words of welcome, her lips to taste him once again.
Vanessa ached for the intimacy that she could only ever have with him—the man she had so loved and whose presence she had so grieved that it had almost felt as though a huge part of who she was had crossed the Atlantic and deserted her, along with him. And Vanessa's ears diligently, anxiously took in every little sound from outside, anything that could mean her love's advent—the crunching of shoes against stone and dust, the hoofs of a horse against the pavement, the wheels of a carriage nearing the entrance—the sound of heavy booted footsteps, so characteristic of him, approaching the wooden door of their residence.
As Vanessa Ives stood there, relentlessly, hours flew by. The sun was shyly beginning to set against the backdrop of the gray colored skies of London. The end of day cold began to seep into her bones and her fair and fragile skin would shudder. She had a warm wool shawl in the bedroom, but she couldn't stand the idea of turning around and then losing that so desired moment forever.
Perhaps she should have dressed up for him—not too fancy so he wouldn't feel too highly of himself—but at least not in the coal-colored, overly modest ensemble she had on. Perhaps Vanessa should have brushed her hair or splashed on her best perfume—so that when he too inhaled her scent, it would be delicious and pleasing in a way that perhaps no other scent in London would be. It was sad and utterly silly all of this—all these useless and vain things crossing Vanessa's mind. They were the very frivolities she had detested to see in Mrs. Murray and her own mother when Sir Malcolm would arrive from months away. A part of Vanessa, however, wanted to be cruel and provocative, show Ethan what he had missed, during all of these months away.
But then, just as Vanessa Ives began to notice the ache of her toes from standing so long, she heard it, the hooves of a horse against the stone ground, the flap of a cape against the cold and howling autumn wind. She could hear and anticipate each and every wide and quick step towards the door. Her heart pounded in her chest and all of a sudden, she lost all awareness of her surroundings. There was only him.
The cold wind accompanied him inside, eliciting shivers from her bare shoulders. She stood there, at the foot of the stares, heart pounding as he moved quickly to engulf her in his strong arms, hold her—as he should have never stopped doing. Her fingers caressed the stubble of his cheek tenderly and then she lifted her eyes to meet with the brown of his. In them she saw only fear and worry, but all of these directed towards her—he cared and she loved him all the more for it.
"I'm so fucking sorry." He said to her and he meant each word. She drew in a sharp breath, overwhelmed by his presence, for him finally being here with her again. It was not a dream, it was not a vision—her beautiful, beloved Ethan.
Before she could stop herself a single tear rolled down her cheek and she knew his eyes were full of them as well. She wrapped her hands around his neck and pressed her lips tenderly onto his, allowing for the shy tip of her tongue to taste him as it had ached to do for so long. She could feel his grip tightening at her waist and a hand burying itself in her locks of raven hair, deepening the kiss, taunting her with his warm soft tongue, with the rushed neediness of his touches.
…
As they lay in the darkness of her bedroom, sated and drunk with love once again she sighed in pure contentedness and pleasure, as his hand brushed away a rebellious strand of her hair. It was then that Vanessa was able to fully look at him, take in the novelty of his shortened hair, which she knew not yet if she approved. His skin was darker from the unforgiving desert sun. She traced feather-light circles around the hair in his chest, delighting herself with the fact that this man, he was the one.
Ethan's fingers too played with the short and sensitive hairs from the back of her neck, bringing rows and rows of delicious shivers to her spine. She was like no other he had ever been with, he had never made love to a woman—well at least it had never been like this. It hadn't been simply lust or frustration, much like it had been with Hecate in the desert. It had been a constant fight for formidable dominance—he had rather enjoyed her on top. Her skin, so soft and so fair had been like the very recipe for his downfall, equal parts fire and pleasure. And he had kissed and tasted and nibbled and sucked everywhere that he could have, etching her entire being—her entire and unfading beauty to his brain. And finally, when their bodies had perfectly molded together, like to halves of a shell, pleasure came to them in such an intensity that he could only compare it to the angry, violent waves during an ocean storm, pounding against the giant steel surface of a ship, wave after wave hitting and pounding in such a rapid succession… never ending. He had become inebriated by their love, and fuck, how it felt good to be home.
"What happens now?" He asked her, pulling her ever so close, sharing in her warmth. All she did was shrug and bury her nose at the curve of his neck, arm stretching across him so that her graceful, elegant fingers—so unlike his—could bury themselves in the silkiness of his hair, ever so tender and intimate.
"We do what we always do," she whispered in that warm and husky tone of hers, "we prepare for the battle ahead." And then she planted a kiss on his shoulder, breathing gradually becoming steadier and in no time they were asleep in one another's arms, in what would be their bed for many of days to come.
As he took in the thankful and peace filled way in that she welcomed sleep he thought of them, how utterly empty his life would still be without her at his side, the infuriating, beautiful little beast.