madeofstories | For Scripps, Dated 12/31

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For Scripps, Dated 12/31

Grace very distinctly remembers the events of New Years Eve one year ago.

Dressed up in clothes from another era, they all rang in the new year in a way that she can only describe as magical. And Grace's last moments of the previous year were spent with someone she didn't anticipate would be as near and dear to her heart now as he is.

This year, they've been plunged into a different place altogether, one that Grace has found equally as magical as the month has worn on. And tonight, it feels as if there is magic in the air all over again, as Grace pulls her scarf more snugly around her neck. She's waiting in Times Square, where she's supposed to be meeting Scripps tonight, but so far, she hasn't spotted him.

Perhaps she should have been a bit more specific as to which corner she'd be nearest to.

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"It would be extraordinary if you were," he swears, his heart beating ever-faster when the elevator arrives at their floor. "I do love you with all my heart, Grace. I may be slow on some things, but I hope you've never doubted that."

Hearing him return the sentiment makes her smile grow ever wider, and even though the elevator has slowed to a stop and the doors are opening, she doesn't resist kissing him again, smiling against his mouth.

"I didn't doubt," she says once she's pulled away, "But it's more wonderful to hear than I think I can say."

Scripps follows after her, stepping onto the floor and noticing none of its trappings or decorations. There is only Grace. "I think you'll find I'm very good at saying it again and again," he jokes with a broad grin. "I love you," he says. "I love you," again, lower.

"The third time was my favorite," Grace tells him, completely surrendering to the moment, wrapped up in it and in him.

"And I love you too," she adds, grasping his hand as they exit the elevator, because it feels wonderful to say, and she can't imagine leaving it to just the one time.

He doesn't fumble with the hotel key though he thinks he'd be perfectly permitted to, given the importance of this moment. With the door open, he's barely inside before he's taking off his suit jacket and letting it fall to the ground, not minding the wrinkles it will earn. "Do you want to wait for something to drink? Or shall we just retire to bed?" he murmurs, kissing her softly.

She steps only far enough away from him so that she can unbutton her coat, though she wishes that she didn't have to leave his side even for an instant.

"If that's what you'd like," she says, "If you would rather wait a bit longer..." Grace thinks the idea of it is terribly romantic and delightful, but she certainly wouldn't protest if they decide to leave the champagne for after.

"Not to borrow too much from a friend, but if I do wait much longer with the prospect of great things before me, I very well may explode," he confesses, helping her with her coat and taking the opportunity to brush fond kisses up the graceful glide of her neck.

"I'm not sure you've chosen the best metaphor, Donald," Grace says with a laugh, though she's crinkled her nose a bit at it as well. She's grown so giddy with anticipation now that any unfortunate word choice on his part is easily overlooked and forgotten.

"Or is it the best metaphor possible," he replies, with a pointed yet crude laugh attached to the words. He slides his hand to the small of her back to pull her into his arms, giving her a slight lift so he can carry her the rest of the way to the bed. "Not very romantic, though, true. Let's fix that."

"She bewitched me," he begins, a Burbridge verse in mind, "with such a sweet and genial charm."

Grace lets out a small surprised sound, not expecting to be practically lifed off of her feet.

"And who are you quoting?" she asks, after a year, used to her boyfriend's tendency to spontaneously begin speaking in verse. Perhaps tonight, it's not as spontaneous as usual, but it's been Donald's way for as long as she's known him.

It's become one of her favorite things about him, actually. And in times like these, it certainly makes up for the odd off-color joke.

"Contemporary, this time," he says, easing her onto the edge of the bed gently so that he can stand between her knees and divest himself of his shirt, proud of the fact that he's no longer worried about this moment. The poetry distracts him from it (so it turns out, after all, that it has prepared him for something). "Burbridge," he says.

"I think I'd like to hear more of him," Grace says, and while this should already feel real, it feels even more so now that he's removed his shirt and she's sitting on the bed looking up at him.

"And could you help me with the zipper of this dress? It's at the back." she adds, and twists a bit so that he can reach it.

He doesn't know much more from Burbridge, but rather than admit that straightaway, he eases to help her with the zipper, sliding it down with gentle fingers. "I've some poetry far more appropriate," he promises, nuzzling against her neck and pressing slow kisses there. "And on that cheek and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent."

He grins. "Lord Byron. She Walks In Beauty. I think it fits you," he says, sliding the fabric of her dress down to her hips.

There's a chill as the air of the room hits her shoulders, though the tingle could just as easily have come from anticipation or from the feel of his lips on her skin. As absolutely lovely as it is, she can't help but feel a bit nervous as she's sat there, very nearly just in her bra and pants. She's done this before, but never with him, which makes hit altogether new and wonderful.

Grace answers his verse by kissing him again, catching his mouth with hers as she's become flattered beyond words.

He kisses her back hungrily. Normally, he'd be more than fine to simply while the hours away kissing and paying no mind to how long it occupies them, but this is kissing with intent. He shucks off his socks and pushes off his trousers as he climbs atop the bed, if only to level the playing field. "I, ah, I could use some direction," he admits between kisses, eyes half-lidded.

There's a nervous tingle in her stomach at the request, if only because she's never had to give instruction for this before. She remembers fumbling her way through this, and she's hardly an expert.

"Kiss me here?" she tells him, unsure as she points to a spot just above the curve of her breast, but only just. "And maybe... the clasp is at the back."

He's always taken instruction rather well. It's one of the most promising things about him as a student and, he hopes, as a person. Carefully and lovingly, he presses a kiss to the spot she's indicated, moving his kisses to her shoulder so he need not part with contact as he unclasps her.

It's silly of her to be nervous in this moment, she knows. Because they're already here and she's sure nothing he sees and nothing she does will cause him to change his mind about this. He kisses her shoulder, his lips warm on her skin, and Grace tilts her head in an attempt to catch his mouth with hers again as she slips out of her bra.

"I love you, okay?" she says, quiet and nervous.

"I love you too," he replies with great sincerity and fondness, kissing her firmly as he eases back long enough to remember that they're going to need some form of protection and is grateful, really, for the fact that Dakin is apparently a presumptuous and perfect idiot, because when he's shedding his trousers, he finds a condom there.

There'll have to be words about that later. "Do you want to help? Or should I..."

"I can... if you'd like," Grace says, sitting up, and she takes the packet from him and tears it open with shaking fingers. She knows there's nothing to be nervous about, but she still has to keep reminding herself, even as she takes him in her hand.

He flashes a brief smile, unable to help himself. It's nervewracking, but at the same time he is beyond pleased that they're in this situation. "I'll lie back?" he suggests, a tremor in his voice that he tries to shake off with good cheer.

"I think that's a good idea," she replies softly, her sentence coming out as half a laugh. Grace sits up and moves over so that she can straddle him once he's taken her place against the pillows. Perhaps it will be easier to about it this way.

He shifts until his shoulders press against the fabric of the bed, easing one hand to her hip to try and guide her as best as he can. This is hardly the sort of thing he studies on a daily basis, but it's an education he's aware he's been putting off -- something he wants to know about, despite all the nerves. "Tell me if I'm doing something wrong," he says. "And I'll see what I can do about fixing it."

"You're doing fine," Grace says, and the condom on, she lifts her hips so that she can ease herself down and onto him. She's only done it this way once, and that was over a year ago now. She bites on her lower lip and her eyes shut as she tries to get used to the feel of him.

He inhales sharply, his breath catching when she sinks down onto him. Fuck, but maybe Dakin's had a point all along about him practically exploding the moment something happens. As it is, his fingers tremble as he clasps at the bedsheets around him. "Oh, fuck," he manages, all of his poetry flying out the window along with all his sense, leaving him stammering and stymied with sex.

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