atlas hands (george/bronwen) (m)
George/Bronwen - first, second, third, seventh, twelfth, fifteenth time. For longjackets and rubberglue, bbs. Title from Benjamin Francis Leftwich's "Atlas Hands". Cross posted from ao3.
---
Their first time is fumbled and short and frantic and sloppy and weird.
They've been planning it - scheduling - for weeks now. They'd make love tomorrow. They'd make love on his single bed in his empty house. They'd make love after supper, and she'd peel his shirt off his body, and he'd kiss her mouth, and their hips would fit together just so. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow becomes today, before he's ready, and his hand trembles as she wraps her fingers around it and offers him a knowing smile and says, "I'll walk you home".
He watches her, in his empty house, by his single bed, when they get back. He watches her when he's supposed to be watching dinner, while dinner burns, and she slowly unwraps the braid from around her head. Her arms are raised, and her top lip bites her bottom lip, and she's looking at him like she can't see the stew charring either, like he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. Someone adoring him, adoring someone, is new to him, and he's so overwhelmed by the way her eyes squint slightly at him and the way her body curves and stretches, that he almost abandons his attempts at cooking to put his mouth on hers.
But they have a schedule, they have a plan, so they eat rabbit stew that tastes like charcoal and shit, and stare at each other while she plays with his foot under the table. And she's so full by the time he takes her bowl - eating shit rabbit stew for the sake of his self esteem - that her stomach twists and her body feels heavy and tired by the time she raises herself from her seat and attempts to launch herself at him from the other side of the room. Her mouth is sloppy and desperate and on his chin, and his hands muss her hair and at some point their bodies are so close together that they feel they are suffocating, and they wrench themselves apart and heave in the after-supper, twilight air.
He smiles at her then - an awkward thing that acts as apology and endearment and encouragement all at once. His hand is still hooked into the loop of her belt; and she takes a step forward, shuffling slender fingers through his terrible haircut and his funny fringe. He's sorry about dinner, and for her blonde hair sticking up at all ends, but he loves her, and can they do it again? So she catches his grin in her grin, and once more they're all tongue and teeth and lips and chests and hands as they stumble towards his bed.
He sits on the edge of the mattress, and into the crook of her neck - as she hooks her legs around his waist, and rests all her weight on his lap, and giggles into his shoulder and pulls off her threadbare slippers - he mumbles that he washed for her today.
She gives him a questioning look, a grimace, and he blushes.
"Not that I don't always - I wash - it's just - for you, you know".
He's hanging his head now, his nose fallen against her chest, and his cheeks warm with embarrassment.
So she raises his head with a finger to his chin, and pulls his tunic off slowly, grumbling as it catches on his chin and his nose and his funny hair, and rests her face against his bare chest.
"You smell good."
He smells like brass polish.
But she bucks her hips against him for good measure, a little too hard, and kisses his nose and his chin and his funny hair and hitches her skirt up and guffaws when he moans.
At some point, she has to stand up so he can strip his pants off. She's hot and bothered and kissed all over, and she stands at the edge of his bed as he eagerly pulls them off, her skirt bunched in her sweaty hands and the food settling in her stomach and the day's work resting on her tired feet and lust rattling around her body as he struggles with his clothing. They're quite a pair, it's quite a sight.
It's over quickly when she crawls back atop him, and he fumbles his hands around her thighs, and she sighs, George, into the room.
It's over quickly, and it's not entirely satisfying for either party, and there's a lot of rocking and groaning and rearranging of limbs and sweaty hair stuck to faces, and when it is over, they're both just very tired and sticky and underwhelmed and think they've failed each other.
It's over quickly, but she puts her head on his pillow, and pulls him down next to her and places her head against his chest again and breathes in brass polish and sex, and snores until morning.
They don't really talk about the first time ever again, but she remembers that he makes her breakfast and he remembers a brief moment of ecstasy amongst the weirdness, that she sighed his name one time.
-
The second time is good, the second time is really good.
The second time is the best. The second time he could count as one of the greatest times, ever.
Which is strange, possibly, given the atrocities of the first.
But this time it isn't planned, and neither of them are tired or nervous or sick from rabbit stew.
This time he turns up at her door in the middle of the day, in the middle of their day off, and he waits while she cleans, while she unwraps the haphazard braid from the top of her head, while she hums and chats and lights a fire in the small chimney and slowly undresses him. He peppers kisses to the bare parts of her shoulders as he fumbles around the laces of her dress until it falls from her body and she stretches her naked self by the warmth of the flames.
He's still not used to naked her, and she's all bravado with her dirty sailor songs, but the notes lack confidence and eventually fall into a hum that vibrates around her body, and his body and their bodies because she's not quite used to him either.
They make love on the wooden floor of her cottage - I swept for you! - and she hums as her hair curtains around his face, and her chest falls against her chest and they teach each other what to do. She hums while he runs a hand around her body, cresting the hills of her breasts and smoothing her tensing stomach with fingers more used to brass than bodies, more used to handshakes than orgasms. She hums as they rock against each other, slowly, and maintains the facade of calm - of nonchalance - until he thrusts against her in a particular way, against a particular spot, and she's stopped halfway through a lullaby, and chokes out a groan, and encourages and pushes and gasps until she trembles around him and he trembles in her and she looks at him like he's magical.
-
The third time is quick, and George comes - comes to learn that it's not such a bad thing all the time.
The third they're both late for work, and their bodies still ache with exhaustion from the day before and she curses the Prince and he kisses her mouth. The third time is against the mud brick wall of his house, and she's got a leg wrapped around him and he's whispering loveyou into her skin so she won't forget it - he hopes she won't forget it.
The third they're both late for work, and Arthur frowns, and Cook is none too happy and they go about things and feel guilty and incompetent and stupid, until she spies him across the banquet hall, and notices the grimace on his face and raises her eyebrows in his direction.
Let's do it again sometime, she had mumbled, with a giggle and a trip over her skirts on the way out the door that morning.
--
Their seventh time is short-lived, because they're tipsy, and clueless and foolish and think it'll be alright, until she pulls her mouth from his and swears. Something about monthly cycles and woman-problems and babies she grumbles as she stumbles away.
Later that night, she'll press herself against him, and breathe in brass polish and half-finished sex and he'll mumble, uncertain, would it be so bad, having babies?
--
Their twelfth time is slow, and teary. Their twelfth time is comfort sex, and she whispers all the things he's good at - everything - into his chest, and promises she'll look after him - forever, and tells him stupid jokes and runs a hand through his hair until he folds his stomach in laughter.
--
They have sex - fifteenth time - when he asks her to marry him. When he forgets to kneel and he forgets a ring, and he forgets everything else, but thinks she's just the most wonderful thing ever. The fifteenth time, he frowns for half an hour, and buries his nose in her hair and worries and worries and worries about failing her, until she pulls him closer and kisses the wrinkles from his forehead, and moans husbandhusbandhusbandhusband into his mouth.
They have sex - fifteenth time, last time - and a braid is still tight around her head and he hasn't washed, and each thrust pulls a strand of hair from the braid atop her head, and makes her chest bounce against his chest, and brings them closer, closer.
They make love, fifteenth time, last time, unaware; and afterwards she sings to him, her voice lovely and light and muffled into his chest, and he smells like brass polish and she sings like an angel.
---
Their first time is fumbled and short and frantic and sloppy and weird.
They've been planning it - scheduling - for weeks now. They'd make love tomorrow. They'd make love on his single bed in his empty house. They'd make love after supper, and she'd peel his shirt off his body, and he'd kiss her mouth, and their hips would fit together just so. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow becomes today, before he's ready, and his hand trembles as she wraps her fingers around it and offers him a knowing smile and says, "I'll walk you home".
He watches her, in his empty house, by his single bed, when they get back. He watches her when he's supposed to be watching dinner, while dinner burns, and she slowly unwraps the braid from around her head. Her arms are raised, and her top lip bites her bottom lip, and she's looking at him like she can't see the stew charring either, like he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. Someone adoring him, adoring someone, is new to him, and he's so overwhelmed by the way her eyes squint slightly at him and the way her body curves and stretches, that he almost abandons his attempts at cooking to put his mouth on hers.
But they have a schedule, they have a plan, so they eat rabbit stew that tastes like charcoal and shit, and stare at each other while she plays with his foot under the table. And she's so full by the time he takes her bowl - eating shit rabbit stew for the sake of his self esteem - that her stomach twists and her body feels heavy and tired by the time she raises herself from her seat and attempts to launch herself at him from the other side of the room. Her mouth is sloppy and desperate and on his chin, and his hands muss her hair and at some point their bodies are so close together that they feel they are suffocating, and they wrench themselves apart and heave in the after-supper, twilight air.
He smiles at her then - an awkward thing that acts as apology and endearment and encouragement all at once. His hand is still hooked into the loop of her belt; and she takes a step forward, shuffling slender fingers through his terrible haircut and his funny fringe. He's sorry about dinner, and for her blonde hair sticking up at all ends, but he loves her, and can they do it again? So she catches his grin in her grin, and once more they're all tongue and teeth and lips and chests and hands as they stumble towards his bed.
He sits on the edge of the mattress, and into the crook of her neck - as she hooks her legs around his waist, and rests all her weight on his lap, and giggles into his shoulder and pulls off her threadbare slippers - he mumbles that he washed for her today.
She gives him a questioning look, a grimace, and he blushes.
"Not that I don't always - I wash - it's just - for you, you know".
He's hanging his head now, his nose fallen against her chest, and his cheeks warm with embarrassment.
So she raises his head with a finger to his chin, and pulls his tunic off slowly, grumbling as it catches on his chin and his nose and his funny hair, and rests her face against his bare chest.
"You smell good."
He smells like brass polish.
But she bucks her hips against him for good measure, a little too hard, and kisses his nose and his chin and his funny hair and hitches her skirt up and guffaws when he moans.
At some point, she has to stand up so he can strip his pants off. She's hot and bothered and kissed all over, and she stands at the edge of his bed as he eagerly pulls them off, her skirt bunched in her sweaty hands and the food settling in her stomach and the day's work resting on her tired feet and lust rattling around her body as he struggles with his clothing. They're quite a pair, it's quite a sight.
It's over quickly when she crawls back atop him, and he fumbles his hands around her thighs, and she sighs, George, into the room.
It's over quickly, and it's not entirely satisfying for either party, and there's a lot of rocking and groaning and rearranging of limbs and sweaty hair stuck to faces, and when it is over, they're both just very tired and sticky and underwhelmed and think they've failed each other.
It's over quickly, but she puts her head on his pillow, and pulls him down next to her and places her head against his chest again and breathes in brass polish and sex, and snores until morning.
They don't really talk about the first time ever again, but she remembers that he makes her breakfast and he remembers a brief moment of ecstasy amongst the weirdness, that she sighed his name one time.
-
The second time is good, the second time is really good.
The second time is the best. The second time he could count as one of the greatest times, ever.
Which is strange, possibly, given the atrocities of the first.
But this time it isn't planned, and neither of them are tired or nervous or sick from rabbit stew.
This time he turns up at her door in the middle of the day, in the middle of their day off, and he waits while she cleans, while she unwraps the haphazard braid from the top of her head, while she hums and chats and lights a fire in the small chimney and slowly undresses him. He peppers kisses to the bare parts of her shoulders as he fumbles around the laces of her dress until it falls from her body and she stretches her naked self by the warmth of the flames.
He's still not used to naked her, and she's all bravado with her dirty sailor songs, but the notes lack confidence and eventually fall into a hum that vibrates around her body, and his body and their bodies because she's not quite used to him either.
They make love on the wooden floor of her cottage - I swept for you! - and she hums as her hair curtains around his face, and her chest falls against her chest and they teach each other what to do. She hums while he runs a hand around her body, cresting the hills of her breasts and smoothing her tensing stomach with fingers more used to brass than bodies, more used to handshakes than orgasms. She hums as they rock against each other, slowly, and maintains the facade of calm - of nonchalance - until he thrusts against her in a particular way, against a particular spot, and she's stopped halfway through a lullaby, and chokes out a groan, and encourages and pushes and gasps until she trembles around him and he trembles in her and she looks at him like he's magical.
-
The third time is quick, and George comes - comes to learn that it's not such a bad thing all the time.
The third they're both late for work, and their bodies still ache with exhaustion from the day before and she curses the Prince and he kisses her mouth. The third time is against the mud brick wall of his house, and she's got a leg wrapped around him and he's whispering loveyou into her skin so she won't forget it - he hopes she won't forget it.
The third they're both late for work, and Arthur frowns, and Cook is none too happy and they go about things and feel guilty and incompetent and stupid, until she spies him across the banquet hall, and notices the grimace on his face and raises her eyebrows in his direction.
Let's do it again sometime, she had mumbled, with a giggle and a trip over her skirts on the way out the door that morning.
--
Their seventh time is short-lived, because they're tipsy, and clueless and foolish and think it'll be alright, until she pulls her mouth from his and swears. Something about monthly cycles and woman-problems and babies she grumbles as she stumbles away.
Later that night, she'll press herself against him, and breathe in brass polish and half-finished sex and he'll mumble, uncertain, would it be so bad, having babies?
--
Their twelfth time is slow, and teary. Their twelfth time is comfort sex, and she whispers all the things he's good at - everything - into his chest, and promises she'll look after him - forever, and tells him stupid jokes and runs a hand through his hair until he folds his stomach in laughter.
--
They have sex - fifteenth time - when he asks her to marry him. When he forgets to kneel and he forgets a ring, and he forgets everything else, but thinks she's just the most wonderful thing ever. The fifteenth time, he frowns for half an hour, and buries his nose in her hair and worries and worries and worries about failing her, until she pulls him closer and kisses the wrinkles from his forehead, and moans husbandhusbandhusbandhusband into his mouth.
They have sex - fifteenth time, last time - and a braid is still tight around her head and he hasn't washed, and each thrust pulls a strand of hair from the braid atop her head, and makes her chest bounce against his chest, and brings them closer, closer.
They make love, fifteenth time, last time, unaware; and afterwards she sings to him, her voice lovely and light and muffled into his chest, and he smells like brass polish and she sings like an angel.