Hello! I am here with the rarepairs of rarepairs, but let me live my life. I was asked to step in as a pinch-hit for Gourmandise, the NSFW side zine to Luin, and I had the wonderful opportunity to write this piece. I actually really, really, really love it. So please enjoy.
It's been years of painstakingly painted canvases and Ingrid still isn't sure what Ignatz sees in her.
It's nice, of course, to have a husband who paints her with such care. It does wonders for the self-image even if Ingrid is hesitant to take it to heart. She's never been the standard wife, a quiet and complacent one who raises the home. She doesn't have long, flowing locks or that soft roundness that comes with raising children.
Instead, her hair is cropped to her chin. Rigid muscles honed from years on a horse, a powerful core, and a sleek stomach. She'd worked until her bones ached, fingers too tired to hold a lance easily.
But, Ignatz isn't the standard husband either. Ingrid carried and birthed their children, but it was Ignatz who stayed home to rear them, teaching their sons and daughter how to be good, honest people. There isn't a better man to learn from.
Ingrid did her part too. She taught them how to wield weapons and defend themselves. She instilled ideals of loyalty and duty. They learned how to love from their father. How to enjoy life to its fullest and indulge. They'd watched as he painted these things into his landscapes, ranges of colors and hues carefully laid down.
Ignatz often calls life a blank canvas just waiting to be realized.
An unconventional home but one that she won't trade for the world. Still. Most conventional men would never have considered her for a wife, so even now, after years of marriage, she wonders still: What is it that he sees in her?
There must be something. Ingrid is his most requested model, his most carefully studied muse. He's spent hours and days and years capturing whatever it is that intrigues him so. She's asked him if he'll ever perfect her image and his answer is always the same.
"There isn't a thing to perfect," he'll say. "I'm only lucky to paint what's already there."
Ingrid always frowns at that. Her husband is just too kind for his own good.
The paintings have changed over the years, just as she has. Rooms of them in their modest manor. A younger Ingrid with a proud stance, clad in gleaming armor. An older Ingrid, fancier armor still, hair slightly longer and eyes just as fierce. A pregnant Ingrid which still strikes as strange. Ignatz always loved her round with child, so there are a lot of paintings like this, her skin radiant with that well-known glow.
Dozens of Ingrids through the years grace the walls, each one different in its own way, but still irrevocably her. Ingrid prefers them to a mirror because they're idealized depictions brought forth from love. Easier to look at than how she looks at herself.
"I bet he's off painting again," muses Ingrid to herself, smiling softly. "I would even put money on it that it's another painting of myself." Not that there was anyone to bet aside from their children, and that's a bet they know they'd lose.
It isn't a complaint. For Ingrid, there isn't a sight that she enjoys more than watching Ignatz lose himself in a canvas. Paint often finds its way to his face, sometimes he takes off his glasses and she can see his eyes, but more than anything, it's his expression. He never seems truly lost, rather instead like he's found something that he just has to share with the world.
"I think he would enjoy a nice drink," says Ingrid. "Otherwise, we might never see him for dinner."
#
Ignatz's studio is a large sunroom towards the back of the manor. When Dimitri gifted their home to them as a late wedding present, he'd insisted upon the room. Ignatz said it was too much, too polite as always. Ingrid groused at the idea, knowing that if given the opportunity, Ignatz would rarely leave it.
Dimitri ignored them both and the studio was the last thing to be unveiled before they moved in. It's a long room with wide, open windows, and high ceilings punctuated with skylights to let in the sun's natural light.
There is decent storage but Ignatz doesn't use it. Paints laying around, frames in the middle of being built, rolls of canvas here and there along with jars of gesso for priming. Ignatz swears that he has a system but it's still a mystery to Ingrid.
Right in the middle of it all is her husband, sitting before a canvas, head tilted to the side. Half-off of his stool as he taps the end of a paintbrush against his lips in thought. Reading the art, as he likes to say. Viewing it from a different angle, a different perspective, trying to figure out if anything needs to be changed.
Even in thought, he looks relaxed, despite the soft furrow between his brows. Oh, how Ingrid loves this look on him, utterly engrossed in his work. She's distracted enough to forget the entire reason she's decided to bother him.
The heels of her boots clack against the stone floor as she crosses the room.
"Lovely Ingrid," he says without looking away from his work. He has such a soft-spoken way about him. Always has.
"None of that," says Ingrid, half-chastising. "Are you thirsty?"
"Maybe. Haven't really thought about it."
Ingrid frowns. "Ignatz." He's gotten so absorbed in his paintings before that he's forgotten to eat, drink, and even sleep at his worst.
"I know, I know," says Ignatz, already expecting the reprimand.
Ingrid decides to let it go, dropping the tray into a drafting table beside him and then climbing up to sit on the edge. She's never been one for propriety, particularly around her husband.
"Tea," she says simply, pouring from a well-crafted teapot. By the time she moves to hand Ignatz his cup, he's still looking at his painting, this time from yet another angle.
"Dear," she says and he finally looks at her.
"Sorry," murmurs Ignatz, his cheeks tinting pink. He still looks youthful in the face, only the gentlest of lines gracing his features. His hair is gently salted with silver, making him seem one-part dashing and one-part distinguished. Handsome as ever. Ingrid wishes she's aged as well as he has.
"Can I look?"
"Er, I'd prefer you wait," he says, dragging his stool closer to where Ingrid sits.
Ingrid's gaze narrows at that. There's only one reason he'd request that she wait to take a peek. "So, it's a painting of me, then," she says.
Ignatz has the decency to at least look sheepish. "Can you blame me?"
"Absolutely," says Ingrid. "Our home is filled to the brim with various depictions of me."
"And yet, it's not enough," says Ignatz, his mouth curling into a gentle smile. Ingrid grunts as he finally takes hold of the offered teacup. "Truly. I fear I'll never stop, not until every spare inch is covered with your likeness-"
"Ugh," Ingrid groans. "Why on earth?"
"What do you mean, Why on earth?" Ignatz blinks at her, genuinely confused. He shouldn't be. They have this argument at least once a week. Surely, he'd get it by now, she thinks.
Ingrid sniffs. "I miss your landscapes. What about those?"
"I've painted plenty of landscapes."
"And you've painted plenty of me."
"Never," says Ignatz. "I could paint you a thousand times and it still wouldn't be enough."
Ingrid can't help the way she still swoons when he says things like that. Embarrassing, really. They're nearly old, definitely too old to be acting like teenagers, even if they never really got to enjoy their younger years.
Still, she can't help the grin that she tries to hide behind her cup. Ignatz manages to catch it, meeting hers with one of his own. Their children are often disgusted when they get like this, mostly because Ingrid is rarely so soft. Ignatz makes it easy to melt into that ease and comfort, to remember why she's here with him.
He's grounded her throughout these years, given her something to come back to. She'd always wanted to be a knight but eventually, it was the return home that came to mean more than anything. Ignatz was always waiting for her on the steps.
"Did you get bored?" asks Ignatz.
"Retirement doesn't suit me," says Ingrid, her mouth turning into an annoyed scowl, a perfect imitation of Felix. "I should be at the training yards yelling at recruits."
"Yes," agrees Ignatz without pause.
"Dimitri is annoying with all he says. 'There comes a point Ingrid, and you've finally met it'. Pah! As if I'm cut out to be some bored housewife."
"A truly dreadful thought."
"What do I do now? Learn how to properly brew tea?"
Ignatz laughs. "This brew tastes perfectly fine."
"What then? Should we have another child?" It's funny, the strange color that Ignatz turns when he chokes on his tea. Ingrid isn't amused. "No," she says, "I think that we have plenty of those."
"Ingrid, darling, why is that you need a task?"
Ingrid lets out an exasperated sigh. "My fingers are itching to be busy, Ignatz. I can't just…" She can't just sit around all day, it's not in her blood. She was raised to be a fighter, she'd done nothing but fight all her life. Now that there's peace and now that she's unneeded as a knight, she wonders what there is left for her.
Ignatz can read her better than anyone else and immediately recognizes the look on her face. He sets his cup of tea down and reaches out, grasping at her hand. His fingers are warm against her clammy ones.
"How do you do it?" she asks him.
"I don't," says Ignatz, his face full of understanding. "It's impossible to forget what we've been through. So, I think about the things that I live for."
"The children," says Ingrid with a small smile.
"And you," says Ignatz, his thumb smoothing over her knuckles.
"Is that why you're always painting me?"
"There are a thousand and one reasons that I paint you," says Ignatz. "All of them pretty simple in the end. You're just my favorite."
Ingrid sighs softly. "To paint, huh?"
"No, just my favorite."
Ingrid smiles then, soft and genuine. Ignatz's face lights up, radiant like the sun. She's still sitting on the drafting table with her legs crossed at the ankles, one hand curled around the cup in her lap with the other settled into his grasp. Ignatz squeezes her hand gently before pulling away.
"I've changed my mind," he says, setting his teacup down.
"About what?"
"The painting," says Ignatz, standing from his stool. He goes to his easel and grabs the canvas by the sides.
"Oh, you don't need to-"
"No, you should see it," says Ignatz. "Would you close your eyes?"
Ingrid lets out an inelegant snort.
"Humor me," requests Ignatz in that quiet way of his, a gentle smile spread wide across his face.
Ingrid shoots him a mock-annoyed look but does as he asks. She kicks her feet like a kid would, impatient. For all she complains about her husband painting her she can't deny that she usually likes the result. She hears some shuffling around and the squeak of the easel as he turns it.
Then Ignatz walks back over to her and leans against the table by her side.
"This is a lot of pomp and circumstance for just a painting," says Ingrid. "Especially one of me, something that I see all the time."
Ignatz chuckles and it's like a soft spring breeze and the warm sunlight that shines through the skylights. Ingrid can't help the goofy grin that finds her face, even if her eyes remain obediently closed.
"Alright," says Ignatz. "You can look."
Ingrid does, her eyes sweeping over the canvas and taking it in. Swirls of colors; the cornsilk yellow of her hair and the sea-green of her eyes. The tucks and folds in the fabric of her favorite loose blouse and doeskin trousers. The softness of her face and the slight curve of her smile, equal parts amused and annoyed. It's only half-finished, only her face and part of her neck painted with the rest hastily sketched in charcoal, but it's enough.
This one is different from the others.
She turns to her husband who's still leaning against the table, arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the painting alongside her. "It's been decades of trying, but I think that I finally got it," says Ignatz quietly. "I just want the world to see how I see you. How I've always seen you."
Ingrid bites at her lip which catches his attention. He turns slightly, taking her hand again. "None of that, lovely," he says. His thumb is soft over her knuckles despite his painter's callouses.
"I just- this?" Ingrid can't find her words.
"Strong and determined," says Ignatz. "But soft and far more refined than most think. Always amused, but also vexed. But yes, this is my favorite look of yours. Everyone else should know it as well."
She finally sees it, what Ignatz finds within her. The soft planes of her cheeks and the devious sparkle of her eyes. "The children will both love and hate it," she finally says with a small laugh.
"It's not for them," says Ignatz with a chuckle. "It's for you." He turns to her fully, Ingrid moving without a thought. She scoots back on the table, legs falling open so he can slip between them.
"You so rarely see yourself, Ingrid," he says to her, his words barely a whisper.
"Well, I see myself now," says Ingrid, her mouth widening into a smile.
"And what do you think?"
"I think that I look beautiful." It rings true the moment the words leave her mouth.
"You're always beautiful," he says, leaning closer, his hands moving to settle against her waist.
He's a smooth one, always has been. Ingrid can feel her cheeks tint pink as his fingers tug gently at the hem of her shirt. "The children can come in any moment," she says.
"The children are old enough to know things," he teases. "Surely they understand how amorous we tend to be-"
"Ignatz!"
He laughs, reaching up to catch her chin in a hand. "If I remember correctly, Arvid took the younger ones into the market and-"
"Oh?"
"-they won't be back until sundown."
"And why did I not know of this?"
"Would you have let them go?"
Ingrid frowns slightly. Probably not. Their children always run to her husband for a guaranteed yes instead. It isn't that she doesn't trust them or want them to have independence, but she worries.
"Arvid is nineteen, plenty old enough to look after them," says Ignatz.
True, especially when you consider what she and Ignatz were doing when they were the same age. Ingrid travels back to then, just for the briefest moment as her husband watches her carefully. She remembers the battlefield painted red, friends and foe alike falling at the end of her lance.
Babysitting younger siblings is preferable to fighting a war.
"So, we have the entire home to ourselves," asks Ingrid, a sly grin finding her face.
"Aside from the servants, yes. But they know better than to bother me when I'm furiously working."
"Working," says Ingrid. "Right. On your newest painting."
"The most important one of all."
Ingrid curls a hand into his shirt and tugs him the slightest bit closer. "It is quite good. Maybe even perfect."
"Oh, I don't know. I think I've got the smile nearly right, but there's something still not quite there. I might need further study."
"Oh?" she asks. "Study what exactly?"
"Hm, you're a clever one," says Ignatz. "I think that you can figure it out."
Ingrid smiles, pulling at his shirt again. Ignatz meets her halfway. His lips are soft against hers and it always surprises her, just how much she loves the feel of them against her own. It's a soft and subtle kiss, more searching than anything, testing the waters. They don't often get the chance to bask in each other's presence without the children around and late at night, whilst in bed, they're usually too tired to truly enjoy something like this, no matter how simple.
He chuckles against her mouth as Ingrid yanks at him yet again, pressing herself closer as she tries to remove any space between them.
"Alright," he whispers against her lips, his hands dropping to her hips. "What has gotten into you?" Genuine curiosity, not an accusation.
Ingrid warms at his tone, letting go of his shirt and running a hand along it to smooth out the wrinkles. "Every painting of me," she starts quietly, "is a dedication of your love."
"Ingrid-"
"I don't think that I say it enough. That I love you, I mean."
"Oh, Ingrid," he says to her, face softening as he regards her with fondness. "That's just it, though. You do every time that you smile. That's why I've spent so long trying to capture it just so."
Ingrid feels her lip wobble, unable to hold back the feeling that floods her chest. This is what she loves most about her husband- his unwavering loyalty to her and his unbridled need to share that with the world. It tethers her, pulls her back to the moment, gives her a sense of purpose and a drive to move on.
Retirement is boring and she misses being a knight, but at the end of all things, she'd always missed her husband most of all. Her missions shifted over time from doing the crown's bidding to just coming home. And now she can have her fill of him whenever she wants.
Ingrid raises her hands and lifts his glasses from his nose, folding them gently before tossing them to the side. She finds his face again, thumbing over his cheekbones, taking in the warmth of his expression before meeting his lips again.
This time the kiss is more heated, noses and teeth bumping together as they try to find their rhythm.
"I think this is my favorite type of studying," says Ingrid, moving to pull Ignatz's shirt loose from his trousers. He laughs, moving to help her along, his skin warm and welcoming as she slips a hand under the hem. He's always been deceptively fit despite his slight stature. Wiry, with archer's muscles, even if he's a little softer with age.
Every bit just as delectable as the years past. Maybe even more so, if Ingrid were honest, pinching at his waist with a teasing grin.
"Favorite, sure," says Ignatz, "but not particularly productive."
"No? I'd think it's the most productive." She pauses as Ignatz tries to stifle more laughter. "Alright then," Ingrid continues, "Distracting instead, but deliciously so- Oh-" Her voice dissolves into a moan as Ignatz slips a hand up her shirt, cradling a breast tenderly.
He's always so gentle in his touches, so reverent. It's evident in the carefully placed strokes within his paintings, and the way he thumbs over her nipple before swirling around it. Fingers calloused from years of marksmanship and painting. Strong hands from stringing bows and pulling canvases taught over frames.
Ignatz kisses her this time, trying to coax Ingrid into something more slow and sweet. He slots their mouths at a different angle to deepen the kiss, tongue slipping to run across the seam of her mouth. Questioning and patient. Ingrid gives in, following his lead, stoking the low-burning fire that burns deep in her gut.
But even with his guidance, she's impatient, hands dancing along the waistband of his trousers. Then her fingers ghost down the front where she can feel Ignatz, already half hard. He groans at the lighthanded touch.
"Eager," she teases, her breath ghosting his mouth.
"Always," he says earnestly. Ingrid melts into his embrace again, unable to ignore such utter devotion.
Ingrid watches as he rucks her shirt up, smoothing his hands across her skin. Down her back and up her sides, across the swell of her breasts. She helps when he tugs at her trousers, leaving them hanging off one leg and caught around the ankle.
She has other things to worry about, more pressing matters at hand as Ignatz grips her hips, pulling her to the edge of the table. The heat between them rises before settling in her core, and Ingrid isn't sure how much more she can take.
"Stop teasing," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his neck, fevered and hurried.
"Yes, yes," says Ignatz, pressing their hips together, fingers digging into her backside through the fabric of her underclothes. His words aren't teasing, they're hushed excitement cut off by another fervent kiss. Tongues tangle together, soft moans rising from the both of them.
"Get them off," says Ingrid tersely, wiggling her bottom in annoyance. Ignatz complies, tugging at her drawers and tossing them to the side once they're free.
And then he looks. He stares as his hands roam across her breasts and down the jut of her hip bone. Ingrid should feel embarrassed but she isn't, emboldened by her sheer want and the beauty of the painting gifted to her earlier. And by the love of her husband who stares at her like a man starving.
He thumbs through the coarse hair at the juncture of her thighs, and then down, circling her clit. Ingrid throws her head back, biting at her lip. It always takes so little when it comes to his deft fingers and the way he can stretch her thin, like the sinew he pulls taut into a bowstring.
She already feels like she's going to snap.
Ignatz is dutiful in his attention, petting through her folds. Down and then up, around that splendid spot, the one that makes her nearly alight with fire. Just when she feels as though she's about to burn alive, he pulls away cruelly, smiling that insufferably kind grin of his. Ingrid huffs, grunting in frustration.
"Tease," she accuses.
Ignatz chuckles against her neck, inhaling her sweet scent before tasting it, his tongue warm across her skin. His kisses aren't enough of a distraction, but that fire still dulls into a mild throbbing between her legs. Ingrid wants to burn, she wants to give in to the pleasure and be wrung out to dry.
It feels like years before her husband gives in again, his fingers finding her once more, this time slipping in properly. One finger and then two, into her slick and tight heat. They both groan at the feel of it.
"Oh," breathes Ingrid, her attention rapt as Ignatz sets about working her up again. It's not just the practiced motions of a man who's adept at this. This pleasure is born from his understanding of her. Ignatz knows what she needs and drinks up the sight of her as she rises and falls at the palm of his hand.
She's wet, his fingers sliding home with little effort, caressing her with an addicting touch. Ignatz kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, long and languid things with a bruising force that will leave marks.
Ingrid wants them, these tiny reminders of this day. She wants to wear them like miniature badges of honor underneath her clothing.
Then Ignatz stops again and Ingrid damn near kicks him. He laughs against her skin, pressing a quiet apology near her ear.
"I won't beg," says Ingrid.
"I don't want you to," says Ignatz, cradling her breast again. Trying to distract her by thumbing over her nipple. "Truly, I want you to enjoy this."
"There are things that I enjoy just as much as your fingers." She reaches between them, squeezing his cock through his trousers with a very pointed look. She expects him to press against her hand and give in to the delicious friction but he doesn't.
Instead, Ignatz drops to his knees before her, and Ingrid's mouth parts as he presses her legs wide. His tongue comes as a welcome surprise against her, tasting and teasing, pressing into her folds. Then his fingers join, slipping into her once more as he works in tandem to bring forth that fire again.
Ingrid leans back on an elbow as her other hand finds purchase in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. His tongue works magic on her, finding her clit as he strokes into her with precise movements. An expert touch, designed to bring her to the edge and over it quickly.
It doesn't take long for her to succumb to the feel of it, for that feeling coiled tight within her to snap entirely. She moans, tightening around his fingers, unwilling to let him go. Ignatz coaxes her through her orgasm with a gentle touch, words muffled as he kisses her core. She's left breathless and wanting more, entirely unsatisfied with the idea of ending it here.
The moment he pulls away from her, she moves, pushing him into an empty chair.
She doesn't bother pulling his pants off entirely, only shimmying them down enough to free his cock. It's warm and hard in her hand, pink with strain and slick with desire.
"Ingrid," he says, his voice thick with lust. She nearly combusts again at the mere sound of it.
Ingrid wastes no time settling over his lap, brushing his cock against her entrance. And then she slides down, taking him eagerly, greedily even. Ignatz curses, fingers finding her ass, squeezing it tightly as she sinks lower and lower.
He fills her so perfectly, she thinks, as she lifts her hips before dropping them again. Ingrid wraps an arm around Ignatz's neck, and his hands move to help lift her and guide her along.
It's an old dance, but one so intimately familiar. The feel of his warm skin against hers, the soft sounds he lets loose. Ingrid yearns for the feel of it, for the feel of him, for his cock as it hits her in all the right places. She can't help the way that she shudders and moans above him. He can't help the way his hands tighten, digging into the soft flesh of her ass as he helps keep the steady rhythm.
Ignatz is a quiet lover with breathy sighs instead of moans, but she loves it, loves him, she drinks up every sound that he makes. She locks them away deep within her to fuel the fire inside as it burns brighter and brighter.
Ingrid lifts a hand, tipping his chin so she can kiss him again. He eagerly meets her lips, tongue finding hers as he immediately deepens it. They're a tangled mess, rutting against each other with revered devotion.
Then Ignatz shifts in the chair slightly and the angle changes. She sees stars, galaxies, the entire night sky as her body lights up at the perfect touch. Ingrid meets his thrusts wantonly, circling her hips slightly on every downturn in an instinctual grind.
"Yes," hisses Ingrid, her voice a deep rasp as she rises and falls, over and over again. She reaches between them to press her fingers against her clit, matching her pace to the tempo of their movements.
"Ingrid," moans Ignatz into her neck. "Ingrid-" She recognizes the fever pitch of his voice, the delicate strain as he does his best to hold on.
"It's okay," she whispers, her breath warm against the shell of his ear. "You've been so good to me. You can come."
The words have the desired effect as he shudders underneath her, thrusts losing their steady cadence, stuttering as he falls over the edge. He bites his lip as he presses deep into her, unwilling to move, unwilling to leave her. Ingrid is close after, clenching tight as she burns up entirely, losing herself to the flames of their passion.
Everywhere is slick; between her legs, Ignatz's lap, her fingers as she soothes her throbbing folds while she comes down from her high. Ignatz leans forward, pressing his forehead between her breasts, breathing heavily. The room is quiet, save for their panting.
"Do you think that was an effective study?" Ingrid asks, unable to stop herself.
Ignatz laughs against her skin before pressing a kiss to her breast, something she's been woefully denied until the moment. "Effective, yes, but not for the eyes of others."
"So no paintings of me naked, then," says Ingrid.
"I never said that," he quips. "Now that I've perfected your smile, it's time to try and perfect other things."
Ingrid makes a face that causes Ignatz to pout, a cute little furrow settling between his brows. "None of that," he says to her, smoothing away her frown with his thumb. "I think I've made it clear how beautiful I find you."
She flushes pink with the memory of the last half-hour. "Yes, well, it's not as though the children could ever see such a painting."
"It wouldn't be for the children," says her husband, smiling. "It would be for us."
"Ignatz, you aren't truly thinking about painting a nude of me, are you?" she asks him seriously. She's still in his lap, he's still inside her, they're still a tangled heap of limbs far too tired to move because they aren't cut out for this kind of workout anymore.
"You're retired," says Ignatz. "I'm retired- well, maybe. The children are old enough to watch after themselves. It's time to have some fun."
"And you think the idea of me modeling nude is fun."
"I think the idea of you nude in any capacity is fun."
Ingrid thinks for a moment. "Are you going to pose nude for me? Allow me to write a wonderful poem inspired by your well-hewed calves?"
"You're terrible at writing but I would love such a poem all the same."
Ingrid is the one who laughs this time, soft and fleeting as she wraps her arms around his neck. Her fingers comb through his hair gently, scratching at his scalp with tender affection. They watch each other for a long time, content in the warm, stuffy studio.
"Ignatz, thank you," says Ingrid after a long moment.
"For what, Ingrid?" he asks in return.
"For the painting. For showing me what you see. For loving me."
Ignatz hums at that, reaching up to grasp her by the chin. "There isn't a need for thanks," he says quietly. "I'm just glad that you understand now."
Ingrid smiles wide before closing the gap between them. Ignatz pulls her closer, fingers threading through her short hair while his other hand anchors itself around her hip. This kiss is sweet and slow, full of love and memories, and hope for the future. There is so much left for them and they have all the time in the world to explore it all.
And, well, maybe that includes a tastefully nude portrait.