fic | nor would i love at lower rate | mary/matthew
NOR WOULD I LOVE AT LOWER RATE
Downton Abbey. Mary/Matthew.
PG13. ~547.
Written for dollsome for the prompt “winter morning” at: The ' I'm Bored! Let's Have A Comment Ficathon!' Comment Ficathon. (There is an angsty response to this prompt here.)
Mary awakes for the first time as a married woman to cold air blowing over her bare limbs (and though she shivers a smile blooms over her face in pleasant remembrance of how she got quite so bare). She reaches out for cover and finds them wrapped around an object, Matthew (her husband! she rejoices inwardly). She tries gently at first to pull at the quilt that is supposed to be for both of them, but he has wrapped it around himself firmly, his grip intractable even in sleep. She finds her eyes adjusting to the light, only the dying embers of the fire providing her with the ability to see the hills and valleys of her new husband's face (husband she forms silently with her mouth and wonders if she shall ever tire of thinking of him as such, as hers). Her breath catches and her hand reaches out to brush lightly against his cheekbone. In that moment, with the ability to take such liberties she forgets January's cold that seeps more deeply into her body. Then his eyelids flutter, and his cheek turns into her hand. "Mary," it is only a breath, his lips brushing against her palm. (It is a prayer pressed into her skin and she is more certain than ever that no one has ever held a greater ability to break her heart than the man lying next to her.)
He frowns, his brow creasing in consternation. "Your hand is cold."
She could laugh, and she decides that she has no reason not to so she lets out a giggle, it is loud in the still of the early hours of the morning, before even the servants are up. "My husband seems to have stolen my coverings."
"What a scoundrel," he smiles pressing a kiss into her hand.
"The absolute worst," she smirks.
He unwraps himself from his cocoon to admit her entrance, and she grabs for him sliding across the bed to press herself greedily against his warmth.
"Good God!" He finally exclaims when he has draped the bedclothes back over her. "You're freezing."
She shrugs. "Your fault," but she holds no malice in her when she thinks his hands stroking along her bare back and with one of her legs finding purchase between his is proving to be the best way of warming up she has ever encountered.
A minute of silence passes (and she revels in each second of it, in growing comfortable like this, his naked body pressed against hers and she thinks forever in those quite moments). "I am sorry. I've always woken up like that, wrapped in the sheets."
"I shall just have to stay closer to you then." She says her lips brushing against his collarbone, and because there is nothing to stop her she kisses the valley of his clavicle. Her single free arm wraps around him, her fingers worming their way between his body and the mattress.
"You shouldn't let go." He whispers into her hair his own hands pressed flat against her to keep her steady against him.
"Never," she promises into his skin. (Never she repeats in her head, an eternal mantra wrapped around mine and home and happy that circles her mind until she falls asleep in her husband's arms.)
Downton Abbey. Mary/Matthew.
PG13. ~547.
Written for dollsome for the prompt “winter morning” at: The ' I'm Bored! Let's Have A Comment Ficathon!' Comment Ficathon. (There is an angsty response to this prompt here.)
Mary awakes for the first time as a married woman to cold air blowing over her bare limbs (and though she shivers a smile blooms over her face in pleasant remembrance of how she got quite so bare). She reaches out for cover and finds them wrapped around an object, Matthew (her husband! she rejoices inwardly). She tries gently at first to pull at the quilt that is supposed to be for both of them, but he has wrapped it around himself firmly, his grip intractable even in sleep. She finds her eyes adjusting to the light, only the dying embers of the fire providing her with the ability to see the hills and valleys of her new husband's face (husband she forms silently with her mouth and wonders if she shall ever tire of thinking of him as such, as hers). Her breath catches and her hand reaches out to brush lightly against his cheekbone. In that moment, with the ability to take such liberties she forgets January's cold that seeps more deeply into her body. Then his eyelids flutter, and his cheek turns into her hand. "Mary," it is only a breath, his lips brushing against her palm. (It is a prayer pressed into her skin and she is more certain than ever that no one has ever held a greater ability to break her heart than the man lying next to her.)
He frowns, his brow creasing in consternation. "Your hand is cold."
She could laugh, and she decides that she has no reason not to so she lets out a giggle, it is loud in the still of the early hours of the morning, before even the servants are up. "My husband seems to have stolen my coverings."
"What a scoundrel," he smiles pressing a kiss into her hand.
"The absolute worst," she smirks.
He unwraps himself from his cocoon to admit her entrance, and she grabs for him sliding across the bed to press herself greedily against his warmth.
"Good God!" He finally exclaims when he has draped the bedclothes back over her. "You're freezing."
She shrugs. "Your fault," but she holds no malice in her when she thinks his hands stroking along her bare back and with one of her legs finding purchase between his is proving to be the best way of warming up she has ever encountered.
A minute of silence passes (and she revels in each second of it, in growing comfortable like this, his naked body pressed against hers and she thinks forever in those quite moments). "I am sorry. I've always woken up like that, wrapped in the sheets."
"I shall just have to stay closer to you then." She says her lips brushing against his collarbone, and because there is nothing to stop her she kisses the valley of his clavicle. Her single free arm wraps around him, her fingers worming their way between his body and the mattress.
"You shouldn't let go." He whispers into her hair his own hands pressed flat against her to keep her steady against him.
"Never," she promises into his skin. (Never she repeats in her head, an eternal mantra wrapped around mine and home and happy that circles her mind until she falls asleep in her husband's arms.)