A/N: The newest episode of Downton has inspired me to write an emotionally complex back-story for one Elsie Hughes. However, just as I'd been contemplating that, Tartan Robes came 'round and prompted me to write why exactly does Charles Carson not know much about women begging for… things.
As a result, you shall get an emotionally complex back-story tomorrow (perhaps). For now, please do enjoy a piece of, well, smut. (And thank my lovely Muse for the prompt.)
Rattle And Hum
Never take anything for granted, she'd said, and he thinks he never could—not with her, when everything she says and does is a gift, and a miracle.
Oh, he most certainly doesn't mean the polite, well-meaning glances she throws at him over the breakfast table, or the way she speaks his name—his last name—all prim and proper. This is just an introduction, an overture, to something much more complex and powerful. There's so much more, and he cannot even begin to describe it.
Sometimes, when his heart is galloping in his chest and he feels like his whole body might burst into flames, he wonders where she'd learnt all that. He wonders whether there had been—but dismisses the thought even before it has finished forming itself in his mind, because it's ridiculous. And besides, he doesn't need to wonder. He knows.
That first night, he remembers it well, they were equally nervous, equally innocent. The difference was, each touch seemed to embolden and free her, to set her skin aglow, to give her more and more power over him.
Him, on the other hand… he hoped he could keep up with her. He thinks he does, now, after all this time.
But there has never been any doubt regarding to whom does the real strength belong.
His breathing shallow and quick, he glances down and catches her eye—and it's almost too much to bear. "P-p…" he mumbles, his mouth desert-dry, and clenches a fist around a crease of the sheet. He can feel her smile, and a second later cool air touches his skin, driving another deep, low rumble out of his chest.
"What was that, pray?" Her voice is equally deep and low, her 'r's rounded perfectly against those lips he can no longer look at, not without surrendering himself completely.
Which, of course, he will. Any moment now.
He simply wishes to keep the pretences up a while longer. If he can, that is.
He's not so sure that he does.
He tries to speak, and fails miserably.
"Nothing to say, then? Am I to understand you don't approve of my efforts? Should I go and find someone more suited to the task, perhaps?" His other hand closes around her wrist as she attempts to move away: he knows she wouldn't, not now—she is never too cruel, though cruel she may be—but the very idea of there being anyone else more 'suited' for what she's doing right now, to him—with him—is absurd, and frightening, and it makes his heart skip a beat in the worst possible way.
She knows what he's thinking, naturally. She always does. And as her fingers tighten, and her breath caresses his skin, he lets his head fall back, eyes shut against the glare of a single candle, too much to take now that he feels like his body is a river, about to break through a dam of stone.
Never take anything for granted, she'd said, and he wonders whether she meant something more than simply putting a fire to the house.
He thinks about another fire, one that she'd lighted many years ago. One that only she can extinguish, for however short a time.
He doesn't know what he would do if she left him.
Not only now. It's never been only about moments like this one.
But it's so much better with them.
"Speechless, still?" she asks, unmoving, and he rush of air coming out of her lungs wraps around him, winds him higher up, makes him loosen the grip on her wrist and blindly search for her skin—her shoulder, her clavicle, her neck, wherever he can reach. "Such a shame. You have quite a way with words." Her hand moves, slowly but purposefully, and so does her mouth, as she presses the tiniest of kisses against him, tastes him with the very tip of her tongue. Everything around him feels like a blinding lightness, electricity and noise. "And you know the one I'd like to hear now."
Oh, does he ever.
And he shall give it to her, like he always does. Because even though he knows she won't leave him (not now, not ever), the thought that she might do it is too difficult to bear.
Swallowing hardly, he licks his lips, and clears his throat, the sound as loud as a gunshot in the quiet between them. "Please," he whispers, for he couldn't manage to muster up the strength for anything else, try as he might, "oh, please—"
Perhaps it's undignified to beg.
In fact, he knows quite a few men of his profession who would have laughed their heads off, knowing that he, with all of his high standards and grace, could be reduced to this form: all want and need and sweat and heartbeat and helplessness and love.
Perhaps he should be ashamed of himself.
Perhaps he should consider stopping it.
But as she finally, finally closes her mouth over him, he doesn't care about what anyone thinks. He shall do it over and over again, beg and plead and tangle his fingers in her hair, so soft and beckoning as it spills across her shoulders, as long as it means he'd get to feel her smile, and hear that low chuckle rise in her throat, and give himself to her fully and completely, over and over again, until there's nothing left to give.
She might reduce him to nothing (he feels like he's nothing when she's more than three feet away from him), but she never does, not in the matters that count the most.
She rediscovers him. Gives him back his shape, his form, his strength—his inner peace.
Perhaps it's not exactly begging when he'd surrendered long ago.
He doesn't know. But it feels like the right thing to do.
So he does it, repeatedly.
And, thank Heavens, so does she.
The End