#these trousers are to go with my shirtsleeves

[badassindistress]

Making some fall front trousers to keep the horrors at bay.

[keelywolfe]

Heyyy :D

I really love your series but your radioapple standalones are also sooo good😍, are there any wips of standalones that you never finished? Any that you wanna share a little bit of 👁👄👁

I have all kinds of notes and WIPs all over the place. 😂 Not much of it is clear enough to share, mostly stream of thought, tidbits and whatnot, but sure, here is a quick and dirty scribble I might finish someday.

It was late, or early, depending on perspective and Lucifer was cleaning up from last night’s celebration. They were celebrating their tenth guest, it was progress and Lucifer couldn’t really get drunk so he mostly played babysitter.

Mostly he was tidying up behind the bed, setting washed glasses out to dry and sweeping up the mess; he’d sent Husk off to bed, him and Angel both, walking together like leaning against the other was the only thing keeping either of them upright. Lucifer didn’t pretend to be the most observant guy out there but if those two weren’t playing tickle the pickle already, then their deli tray was in need of a refill.

Huh. Weird. He swore he could hear music.

Lucifer followed the sound of it through the backroom door. The bar didn’t have any food more complicated than pretzels, but there were jars of maraschino cherries and pearl onions stacked back here along with extra glassware and beer kegs.  

A quick peek didn’t show him anything, but the music was louder and Lucifer turned a corner and stopped.

There in the backroom was Alastor, waltzing to the music, alone.

His eyes were closed, his smile hazy bright as he moved with wobbly elegance, steps as slurred as his speech surely was. He’d shed his coat at some point, down to shirtsleeves and suspenders and sleeve garters, and it was as bared as Lucifer had ever seen him. The fit of his trousers emphasized his slim waist, honestly, that coat gave him a lot of bulk because beneath it, Alastor was slender as a willow branch and moved much the same way, caught up in the music.

Lucifer stood in the doorway, watching, staring, really, and distantly wondering what the hell his problem was. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen Alastor dance before; just tonight he’d been in the bar at some point, proving what that Whimzy woman said about his dancing skills.

But it was just another of the incongruous pieces that made him up. Lucifer didn’t understand Alastor at all. He was a mystery wrapped in a conundrum all rolled up in bullshit; he was an overlord with no territory, he stayed at the hotel ‘for the entertainment’ but nearly died protecting it. Lucifer saw it himself.

Unless dying was entertainment, what did he know.

“…have you ever seen a dream walking…well, I did...”

If the sway of his steps and his wobbly turns were a sign he’d been drinking, then gin bottle in his hand was one of the neon variety. As he whirled, gin slopped over his hand, the sharp juniper smell of it strong and Lucifer only watched.

“…did you ever see heaven right in your arms, saying, ‘I love you, I do’…”

Lucifer was moving before he even thought, his boots soft on the floor as he walked up to where Alastor swayed and set his hands on him. Alastor didn’t so much as flinch, as if he’d been waiting for someone to take him into his arms. He didn’t even open his eyes when Lucifer caught hold of the bottle and set it aside, replacing it with his own hand, and pulling Alastor into a twirl, the two of them swaying in unison to the soft music around them. Moving as one while the crooning song coaxed them to step and twirl and dance.

“…the dream that was walking and the dream that was talking and the heaven in my arms was you…”

Dipping someone taller than you wasn’t an easy move, but this wasn’t amateur hour here, Lucifer had some ten thousand years of practice at it.

The song faded to silence, going back to wherever it came from in the first place. Only then did Alastor open his eyes. Hazy crimson, as bright as his smile and Alastor was close, too close, filling Lucifer with an urge he hadn’t had in a long, long time.

He was already starting to lean in when Alastor spoke, “You should toddle off to bed now, your majesty.”

Lucifer only raised an eyebrow, “Should I?” Being told what to do always made him bristle and he leaned in more, their mouths only a breath apart. “You sure about that, radio demon?”

Alastor’s eyes dropped to his mouth, his own lips tightening. “Quite. Now let me up.”

Lucifer didn’t move, waited long enough for Alastor to squirm restlessly in his arms before swinging him back up to his feet.

He straightened his tie, dusting off his shirtfront with brisk, agitated moves.

“What’s the matter, Al-a-stor,” Lucifer said teasingly. “You don’t like to kiss?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“No? All of Hell is my business, sweet cheeks.”

“Not this,” Alastor snapped. “What do you even want?”

Lucifer slouched back against the shelves, arms crossed as he watched Alastor's discomfort with no little enjoyment. If he'd been drunk before, it certainly wore off quickly. “Wanted a kiss, whatever came after was optional.”

The flick of his glance was filled with disgust. “I don’t engage in that sort of casual activity.”

Now it was Lucifer’s turn to laugh. “I’ve been with the same woman since humans were created and you think I do casual sex?”

“Unlike you, I don’t take an interest in the personal lives of others.”

“You should! Lots of interesting information you can get there.” Lucifer stepped forward and tipped his head up in invitation, a reversal of their previous position. “Give me a kiss, Alastor.”

Those crimson eyes went wide and Alastor stumbled back a step, as graceless as Lucifer had ever seen him.

“What is wrong with you!” Alastor snapped, a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

He shrugged. “All night long watching everyone so happy, dancing with the person they love. Maybe it was inspiring.”

“Considering the only emotion I have for you is barely contained contempt, you may wish to go back to sightseeing.

“Trust me, you’re not containing it, barely or otherwise. One kiss.”

Alastor glared at him through narrowed eyes. “What do I get in return?”

Lucifer laughed. “You get me to kiss you back! This isn’t a deal, you don’t need to negotiate terms.”

“I disagree.”

“You can give me one itty bitty kiss for free, can’t you. It’s not like you’ve never been kissed before.”

Silence and something flashed across Alastor’s face, quickly hidden behind that smiling mask.

“You haven’t, have you. Oh, sweetheart, let me tell you, you’re missing out.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Alastor said icily.

[metal-mouse]

Let Me Make it Up to You

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x F!MC (m/f) themes: creepy liminal lake. smut. sort of established relationship. warnings: 18+ this contains spice and filth. oral sex. p in v unprotected sex. dominant-ish Sebastian. m/f pairing. characters aged up. not safe for work y'all. mc almost drowns. summary: just over 3k words. After a poorly executed treasure hunt, Sebastian Sallow must make it up to you somehow. note: something about shower sex with Sebastian just really appeals to me idk. This is mostly self-indulgent but I liked it enough to post it. It's way longer than I thought it would be lmao. 99% unedited because I'm lazy. i've never like properly tried to write smut in a way that makes sense for other people bc of course I can picture what I'm writing in my head, so it's a little detail lacking currently. it'll be interesting to see my writing style progress.

You stood beside Sebastian Sallow at the edge of a dark lake found deep within a cave he’d read about. Sebastian had heard a rumor of a ‘great’ treasure within the cave, and had begged you to come along with him to retrieve it once he had located it. You had agreed, but now you were a little less enthusiastic. From your spot on the shoreline, you could see a painted chest sitting on a small mass of land closer to the middle of the lake. The only way to the chest was to swim. You’d both spent a rather long time trying to summon the chest, and it wouldn’t budge.

“Draw sticks?” Sebastian asked, tilting his head as you looked up at him.

“You always cheat.” You frowned. You already knew it was going to be you to swim across the gap. Sebastian’s ability to ask something of you and for you to agree was… unfortunate at times.

“You’re just so much better than I am at everything.” Sebastian pouted. His hand stroked down the back of your arm, the warmth piercing through the thin fabric of your shirtsleeve. You stepped out of his touch and kicked off your shoes with a sigh.

“This treasure better be worth it, Sallow.” You looked back at him, unbuttoning your trousers and stepping out of them. You pulled your shirt off, discarding it next to your trousers. There was no use in getting all of your clothes wet. Aside from your undergarments, you kept the small pouch that Ominis had helped you enchant to hold far more than should be possible for the size of the pouch. You walked to the edge of the lake, looking down into the murky water. A pulse of fear passed over you, making your heart flutter. It was unnerving not being able to see anything in the lake - you didn’t like not knowing what was coming. Taking a deep breath, you stepped off the edge. You panicked momentarily as you plunged entirely under the frigid water. There was no gradual slope to deep water, it was just a drop-off. You pushed upwards, gasping for air as you surfaced.

“Are you alright?” Sebastian asked, his concern would be touching if he hadn’t just guilt tripped you into doing this.

“‘S cold.” You managed to say, the cold water made it a little difficult to breathe. You kicked your feet and used your arms to propel you forward towards the island, spurred on by the thought that you had no idea what was beneath you. The sooner you were out of the murky water the better. It didn’t take you long to get to the island and haul yourself up onto the stone surface. Being in the air was even worse than the water now, the cool air of the cave chilling you thoroughly to the bone. You hurried across towards the chest, silently hoping it would be easy enough for you to open.

“What’s in it?” Sebastian called out, his voice echoing around the chamber.

“Alohamora!” You cast. The lock clicked open and you eagerly lifted the lid. The chest held an assortment of jewelry, and a bag of gold coins. They weren’t galleons, they were some sort of ancient muggle currency. They’d certainly fetch a fair price either way. Your anger towards Sebastian was fading quickly, especially as you picked up a particularly ornate necklace. You made quick work of stuffing everything into the leather pouch, eager to be out of the chilly cave. It was easier this time jumping back into the water, you knew what to expect this time. You swam back towards Sebastian who called out words of encouragement. As you neared the middle of the stretch, something felt wrong. An overwhelming sense of danger filled you, and that’s when a cold hand wrapped around your ankle. You barely had time to gasp for breath as that hand was joined by several more and you were pulled under the surface.

Sebastian yelled out your name as you disappeared under the surface. He ran to the edge, but could only see a stream of bubbles coming up from the black water. Panic clouded his mind at the thought of you being hurt, and it would all be his fault. This wasn’t exactly an enemy he could see and fight. He had no idea what to do, how could he save you if he couldn’t see you? He reasoned that you were very capable and strong, you’d gotten out of sticky situations like this before. Far too much time had passed for his comfort, and he knew he had to do something. He dumped his cloak on the ground, preparing to dive in for you when he saw a flash of red light from the deep. As soon as he could see you, he dropped down and snatched your hand hauling you out of the water. Your skin was freezing cold, and you began to cough violently as you flopped down. About a dozen grindylows floated to the surface dead until their surviving companions yanked their bodies downwards, no doubt to feast on them.

“Are you alright?” Sebastian gasped out, putting his hand on your shoulder. You snatched his wrist, looking up at him with bloodshot, furious eyes. They almost seemed to glow with your rage. Sebastian knew then he was in a lot of trouble.

“Don’t.” Your voice was a strangled wheeze, and Sebastian withdrew his hand like he’d been burned. He had half a mind to run away from you, his eyes flicked to your wand still clutched in your other hand. He knew what you could do with it and he suddenly wasn’t keen on dueling with you. Sebastian obeyed, stepping back from you as you got to your feet. He apparated as soon as you pointed your wand at him. The last time he’d pissed you off he had ended up with no eyebrows and two inch long front teeth that had taken three hours for Nurse Blainey to fix.

Sebastian ran the rest of the way back to Hogwarts, he knew he didn’t have much time to hide from you or get you calmed down. He had to find Ominis. If anyone could get you to calm down, it was Ominis. Sebastian knew he had a habit of fanning the flames of your anger, while Ominis did a wonderful job of quelling them.

Students watched him and more than one person called out to him as he ran past. He was panting heavily by the time he found Ominis who sat with Poppy Sweeting. Poppy looked up at him with wide eyes as he thundered to a halt in front of them.

“What did you do?” Ominis asked calmly.

“You have to hide me!” Sebastian was desperate.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything - how was I supposed to know there were Grindylows?”

“Grindylows? Where did you find Grindylows?”

“A cave. It’s a long story. Please hide me. She’s going to kill me.” Sebastian pleaded.

“Is she alright?” Ominis asked. Sebastian knew his time was running out. He had to find somewhere safe until you cooled down enough for him to safely approach. He’d make it up to you somehow. He’d find a way to make you forgive him.

“She’s fine. Please, Ominis! You have to talk to her. I’ve never run so fast in my life.”

“You ran from her? What is wrong with you?” Poppy burst out, smacking Sebastian on the arm. He gave her a stunned look, unused to such outbursts from her. Ominis sighed sharply through his nose, shaking his head slowly.

“My friend, I’m afraid there is nothing I can do for you. She only gets angrier when they run.” Ominis’ lips pressed together in a firm line. Sebastian knew the bastard was trying not to smile. When they run. Sebastian knew he was right, he’d been on enough quests to rescue beasts with you that he knew how furious you got when you had to chase what you sought.

“I’ll buy all your butterbeers for the rest of the year!” Sebastian burst out. Ominis tilted his head, considering the offer. Sebastian bounced on his feet, anxious to get to safety.

“Go. I’ll try to talk to her.” Ominis said, smirking.

“SALLOW!” Your voice boomed through the hallways, and Sebastian turned and ran.

“My goodness! What happened to you?” Poppy Sweeting asked.

“Where is he?” You snapped, and Sebastian took a pinch of floo powder and went as far away as he could.

You knew Sebastian had put Ominis and Poppy up to pacifying you, and while your friends hadn’t eliminated all of your anger they had made you promise not to kill Sebastian. He should consider himself lucky that you respected Ominis and Poppy far too much to go against their wishes. You were cold, damp, and uncomfortable, so you had decided to give up your hunt and make your way to the showers. You stood in the warm water, letting it rinse off the remnants of nasty lake water from your hair and body. You were absorbed in fantasies of revenge as you ran your hands through your hair to loosen some of the knots that had formed during your pursuit of Sebastian. The warm water was a blessing compared to the frigid and dingy lake.

You let out a little hiss when a cold breeze pushed around the steam you had accumulated in the shower room leaving goosebumps all over your body. You shrank further into the shower, annoyed thoroughly with whoever was intruding on your murder plotting time. When the steam closed around you again, you sighed with contentment and closed your eyes. Broad hands gripped your hips. You knew those hands. Sebastian planted kisses on your shoulder as his chest pressed against your back. You ignored him, just as you ignored how easily his touch affected you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, nudging your cheek with his nose before kissing your jaw. “Let me make it up to you.” He said, pulling you back closer to him. You could feel his hardness pressed against your backside, and it took a lot of effort to not react. You fought to keep a straight face as his hands moved from your hips. One hand moved up towards your chest, the other down to your lower belly. Sebastian kept you pressed against him as his knuckles lightly traced the underside of your breast. He leaned in and kissed your neck as his fingers brushed against your nipple. You were determined. Adamant. He wasn’t going to get a single thing from you. You could feel him watching you very carefully, and when he bit down on that spot where your neck met your shoulder you couldn’t stop your reaction. All it took was a slight tilt of your head, and he knew he had you.

“There’s my girl.” He murmured, his hand on your lower belly traveling downwards. His girl. Eternally possessive. When his fingers slid between your wet folds, he let out a dark laugh.

“I knew you wanted it. Look how wet you are already.” He said, nipping your ear with his teeth. He began to rub his fingers in small circles over your clit and you relaxed into his arms.

“I hate you so much.” You breathed out, one hand reaching back and gripping Sebastian’s thick hair.

“Mmmm I can tell.” The depth of his voice in your ear sent chills through your entire body as he kept up a steady, lazy pace between your legs. His other hand rolled your nipple between his fingers. You subtly ground your backside against Sebastian’s erection. You smirked at his abrupt groan. His fingers on your nipple pressed harder giving you a sharp pinch. You twisted enough to look up at him, marveling in his appearance. The flush of his cheeks, the fire in his eyes, the arrogant bastard smile playing at his lips. He let go of your nipple, his hand coming up to wrap around your throat. He turned you around and pushed you against the wall of the shower cubicle, not once stopping those lazy little circles that were quickly unraveling you. Your hands fell to your sides.

Sebastian kissed you then, deep and intense like he always did. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, and you opened up for him. His taste was intoxicating and mixed with the feeling of his teasing touch on your sensitive clit you were approaching an euphoric sensation. You moaned into his mouth as he slid two fingers inside of you.

“Fuck, I love it when you moan like that.” Sebastian’s voice was husky as he mumbled against your lips. He kissed along your jaw and down on your neck finding that spot that made you so weak. His hand moved from your throat up to your hair which he gripped tightly as his fingers curled delightfully inside of you making sighs and small moans tumble from your lips. How he could do so little to make you feel so good was incredible.

“It’s so hard to be patient for you and that sweet cunt,” his breath tickled your neck, “can you be a quiet girl for me?” He asked, fucking you with his fingers. Right. You were in the shared showers during a Saturday afternoon where all of your classmates had all the free time in the world. You nodded, and instantly regretted it from the grin on his face as his fingers slid out of you and he knelt on the ground in front of you. One hand prompted your left leg to lift, you obeyed and he put it over his shoulder. Sebastian’s hands floated up and down your thighs as he moved in closer. He bit down on the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, and your hand flew to your mouth to stifle your cry. He looked up at you with those eyes of fire, his tongue experimentally swiping along your entrance.

“Sweet. My sweet girl.” He gave a low groan, and started his assault. His tongue swiped shapes over your clit, and you had to bite down on your hand to stop yourself from making too much noise. He flattened his tongue lapping you up, you were already sensitive from his earlier work and it wasn’t taking long for an orgasm to start building up. He seemed to know it too. His tongue swirled over your clit, and he slotted two of his fingers back inside of you.

“F-fuck, Sebastian.” You stammered against your hand at the overwhelming sensation. The pressure of his tongue against your clit and his fingers curling against your sweet spot… it was too much. Your head fell back as you began to fall apart, your fingers lacing in Sebastian’s hair for fear that he would stop. You bit down harder on your hand to choke on the scream as your legs began to tremble. Sebastian moaned against you as you came for him. He let you ride out your orgasm on his face, not stopping until your fingers loosened slightly from his hair. You looked down to see him rock hard, flushed, and his eyes seemingly begging for you.

You took him under his chin, your leg falling to the side as you prompted to stand. He stood, his fingers once again leaving you empty. His hands curled around your ass, and he lifted you and pinned you between him and the cubicle wall. Your legs squeezed him, holding yourself up as he positioned himself at your entrance. His lips crashed against yours when he thrust inwards, both of you making a desperate attempt to remain quiet. His hips rolled as he fucked you hard and steady. When he was feeling particularly cruel, he would edge you until you were in tears, however today he was in just as much need as you were. You loved the way he filled you up. His steady pace had his head lightly pressing your cervix, hitting all the right spots. You hadn’t realized how good someone could make you feel until you’d slept with him for the first time. With the way he was fucking you, you could feel your pleasure rapidly approaching for the second time in a matter of minutes.

Sebastian was in your ear, whispering about how much he loved you, how he’d always protect you, and how he was oh so sorry for letting you jump into that lake for the Grindylows to attack. You were in ecstasy, unable to respond as he ground his pelvis against your sensitive bud. His rhythm faltered slightly, and you knew he was close.

“I love you.” You breathed out, knowing it was exactly what he needed to hear. His response was a low, guttural groan. His thrusts got sloppier, before he abruptly pulled out. You dropped your hand quickly, wrapping around his shaft and finishing him off as he came all over your stomach. Your legs dropped to the ground, and Sebastian’s head dropped to your shoulder as you both fought to catch your breath. After a few heartbeats, his head lifted and he kissed you again. His kisses after sex were always so sweet, so emotional.

“Are you okay?” He asked you, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze as he stood up straight. You nodded, admiring the loving glow in his eyes.

“I really am sorry.” He promised.

“I know, Sebastian. It’s alright.” You caressed his cheek, and he pulled you in for a long embrace. You stood like that for a long time, before cleaning off properly and getting out of the shower before someone could catch you in there together. You felt relaxed now, your anger completely forgotten as Sebastian put a fluffy bathrobe around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your cheek. He may be sweet now, but you knew it was only a matter of time before he filled you with so much rage you thought you could kill him. At least you could look forward to how he would make up for it.

“So, are we still splitting the treasure 50-50?” Sebastian asked, grinning at you. You smiled back at him shaking your head at his audacity, perhaps he would be making it up to you sooner than you thought.

[keepyourstyle]

So I uuuh wrote a Rolan fic.

Rated E for Rolan getting laid Featuring Aya (my tav) Notes: This isn't finished and I'm trying to figure out if I wanna keep going, but I wanted to post what I wrote so far

*****

Aya stepped through the portal to Ramazith Tower in Sorcerous Sundries and looked around. It was nighttime when she arrived, past closing, but an employee recognized her and unlocked the door with a, “The master said to let you in if you arrived.” The spacious room was dim, with only a few lanterns illuminating the area.

A rustle of paper caught Aya’s attention, and she made her way over to the sound. There she found Rolan crouched in front of a stack of books, the robe he usually wore tossed over a nearby railing, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he flipped through the pages of a large tome. Aya placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and Rolan jumped, almost toppling over as he turned to face her.

”You’re here.” Rolan drew himself up to his full height and looked down at Aya. “I wasn’t sure if you would….” His voice trailed off, unsure of what else to say. A hand began to reach out for Aya, but he clenched it into a fist and dropped it to his side, not wanting to seem desperate. 

“I wanted to see how you were settling in.” Aya stepped around Rolan to look at the pile he was in the process of organizing. 

Rolan swallowed as he studied Aya, her back to him. He hated how tongue-tied and nervous he got around her. Lia kept telling him to confess his feelings but whenever he ran into Aya, she was either pulling him out of trouble or in the company of her traveling companions. Since neither situation seemed appropriate for telling someone you liked them, Rolan kept his mouth shut.

”There is…a lot to go through.” He waved a hand around, indicating the shelves and display cases filled with books, papers, and various artifacts. Rolan fell quiet for a moment, his mind racing. “I still don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done,” he finally said. 

Aya turned around to face Rolan and took a step closer to him. “I can think of a few ways you can thank me,” she told him in a soft voice, green eyes glowing in the lamplight.

Wait. Did she mean—

No.

Rolan could only stare at Aya, heart racing. His hands itched to seize her and pull her close but he wanted to make sure he understood her correctly. He moved to stand directly in front of her, then bodies now only a few inches apart. “Anything you want,” he replied, his voice low and rough.

The first kiss Aya gave him was soft, almost as if she was unsure of how he would react. Her hand slid behind Rolan’s neck and gently pulled him down to meet her lips. A small sound escaped him and when Aya pulled away, Rolan gave into his urge, grabbed her waist, and pulled her flush against him.

Their second kiss was hard and fierce, full of pent up desire neither wanted to admit until now. Aya’s fingers tangled in Rolan’s hair and pulled out the tie he used to keep it out of his face. Her body pushed against his, forcing him to walk backward until the back of his legs hit that damned book throne he kept telling himself to get rid of.

Aya broke the kiss and before Rolan could question why she would do that, she had his shirt up and over his head, discarded somewhere on the floor. He followed her lead and Aya’s own blouse followed, tossed off to the side. A frantic scramble ensued as they both reached for each other’s trousers, working the garments open, shoving the fabric down while simultaneously meeting for another furious kiss.

Somehow they managed to strip each other bare and Aya shoved Rolan back onto the throne. He sat, sprawled, and his eyes followed the curves of Aya’s body, her pale skin littered with freckles, when he saw the long scar marring her side.

Aya followed his gaze, and an embarrassed look crossed her face. “It’s a story for later,” she said in response to Rolan’s unasked question. His reply was to grab her hips and tug her forward, causing her to kneel on the chair and straddle his lap. 

Normally, Rolan would take his time with Aya, run his hands over every inch of skin, tease her until she begged for more. But his body ached for hers and judging by the dark look in Aya’s eyes, she felt the same.

Resting her hands on his shoulders, Aya gradually sank down onto Rolan and they moaned in tandem. Once he was fully inside, Aya sat still, trembling, afraid to move and come too soon.

Rolan buried his face in the curve of Aya’s neck, his breathing heavy as he also tried to hold himself together. He survived the fall of Elturel, lived in Avernus, yet he burned hotter than all the hells combined, and gods if Zariel dragged him back at this moment, he would go a happy man.

Aya rolled her hips and gasped as a frisson of pleasure shot through her. It had been a while, a few years, since she had been with someone, and figured if she was going to end up sleeping with someone on this adventure, it would be someone like Gale or Astarion.

But no, it had to be the grumpy tiefling wizard and Aya quickly found she needed, craved, his touch.

Rolan’s body thrummed with tension, his nails digging into Aya’s waist in an attempt to keep himself from snapping. He dreamed of this, waking up in a painful state more than once, but resigned himself to the fact it would never happen.

When Aya finally moved, Rolan let out a muffled incomprehensible garble of words against her neck. Slender fingers moved to clutch his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Each time she sank back down onto him, Aya let out a cry that echoed throughout the library, and Rolan grit his teeth against the familiar clench in his abdomen, wanting to hold on just a bit longer.

Gods Aya was close, so close, then suddenly she stopped and moaned Rolan’s name, muscles tense around him, a shudder going through her as she rode out her orgasm. For a moment everything went dark and Aya felt as if she was struck with a lightning spell.

At the sound of his name, Rolan let himself go, and came hard, a mix of Common and Infernal spilling from his lips. The fire that burned in him turned into an inferno and he was surprised Aya wasn’t scorched in the process.

The pair fell silent as they came down from their high, sweat rolling down their bodies. Rolan reluctantly pulled his face out of Aya’s neck and looked up at her, his hair falling around his face. Aya met his gaze, and a flush covered her cheeks, going down her neck and to her chest.

With a hiss, Aya shifted and pulled off of him, ignoring the ache in her thighs from kneeling for so long, settling back onto Rolan’s lap. “So…” she said, breaking the silence, and let go of him to push the black and silver strands that escaped her bun off of her face.

Rolan rested his forehead against Aya’s and closed his eyes, nervous. “I’ve…wanted this. For a while,” he confessed. “Since the grove.”

”I know.”

Rolan tilted his head back and stared at Aya with wide eyes. “What?”

”I’m not blind.” Aya reached out and rested a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing over the skin. “I saw how you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention.” She bit back a laugh at the mortified expression on Rolan’s face. “Plus, your sister told me.”

Leaning back against the chair, Rolan covered his face with his hands. “Godsdammit.”

Aya groaned as she climbed off him and stretched, then looked around for her clothes. She pulled her underwear on, and grabbed Rolan’s shirt, slipping it over her head. “Now as I recall, I saved you…what? Three times?” she said, picking up Rolan’s trousers and throwing them over to him. He lowered his hands just before the garment hit his face. “So I suggest you continue to thank me somewhere more comfortable.”

Rolan stood and tugged his trousers on, his mind suddenly blank. The sight of Aya wearing his clothes was all he could think about, and it took him a second to process her words. “…my room. Downstairs.”

[favouritefi]

i was scrolling through your terror tag again and as someone who struggles with drawing clothes, particularly formal wear, i just have to commend you on how effortlessly you seem to be able to draw waistcoats and shirtsleeves and the like! not to mention beloved nedward’s security blanket of a sweater. in your learned opinion, do catboys and dogboys have any distinctive ways of dress or accessorizing their unique features? iirc fitzjames put bows on his dogboys but i’m just picturing like. welsh caps with little holes for kitty ears for example :))

aww thank you my understanding of waistcoats and puffy sleeves comes from drawing 100s of images of izzy hands for the past 2 years, i honestly still struggle to draw most other clothing and drapery pains me on a psychic level, if i ever get blorbopilled over someone who wears long flowing dresses it might be the end of me

answering your qs below cut bc it got super long bc i think about clothes too much:

ok you're entering a territory of thinking that has legit kept me up at night bc like if you put a regular welsh wig on them then their ears will move and shift the wig and if you have holes in the wig for their ears then their ears will get cold thus defeating the purpose of the wig so the best solution i can think of is that they either wear a bonnet-like contraption that ties at the chin or they wear a loose balacava situation like what billy wears during hickeys hanging. the bonnet would surely be deeply uncomfortable and make hearing difficult so i imagine its not a popular choice, by that logic they must not enjoy wearing hats generally speaking which is interesting when you consider the importance of hats in victorian culture and how going out without one means you're not properly dressed, not sure this is the answer you expected but these are my convoluted thoughts

in terms of other clothing quirks the main thing is the presence of tail holes in trousers. these are adjustable using either ribbons or buttons which close over the top of the tail after the wearer has put their trousers on. these trousers are pricer than human trousers so often cat/dogboys make due by just ripping and restitching the seam of human trousers or, if they have short tails, they can tuck their tails into the human trousers. jopson has been altering his own trousers to include tail holes ever since he was adopted by crozier and now he alters the trousers of all the other catboys too since its cheaper. when fitzjames adopted tozer one of the first things he did was get tozer measured so he could have custom tailored trousers with a reinforced band to accommodate his powerful tail wagging. tozer, who has spent most of his life in generic navy-issued uniforms, found the sensation of wearing clothing that actually fit him and his extremely fluffy tail to be very very bizarre.

speaking of fitzjames, i had him put bows on dundy and tozer because i think jfj would love to be a pet influencer. if instagram existed you knooooow he would be dressing up dundy and tozer in silly outfits on the regular and posting daily for internet clout. anyway, the bows thing in dundys case is actually practical because it helps keep his long ears out of the way and makes him look more "dressed", kinda like how victorian women would tie their hair up when in polite company. a lot of dogboys with long ears do this. dundy usually ties it himself but when he was young jfj would help him. jfj will sometimes tell him to wear a specific ribbon for outfit coordination reasons, but usually dundy just wears a standard white / navy one to match his uniform. when theyre hauling south he loses those ribbons and is forced to tie his ears back with twine and scraps of fabric or forego tying them entirely.

[aftershocked]

would love to see number 10 🥺🙏

(And if you’re up to it, here’s some others that caught my eye: 18, 35, 49, 54)

so. i was going to wait and answer these all at once but the first prompt came out to 1,487 words. so.

Valvert - #10, hair/caressing/braiding; 1.5k, rated G leaning briefly on T:

“Oh, let me get that, my dear.”

One of Valjean’s large hands reaches forward to cover Javert’s own, still pinching a bit of ribbon between his fingertips.

Javert huffs soundlessly as he passes the ribbon to Valjean without complaint, lowering his arms and settling more comfortably onto the small upholstered stool they keep next to the little desk in their bedroom.

He is already dressed for a brisk, wintry day, despite the few scant rays of dawn just now peeking past their curtains—still nervous, even now, whenever he accompanies Valjean to visit Cosette and her husband and their children. He cuts a handsome figure to Valjean’s eyes, wrapped in warm trousers and pleated woolen shirtsleeves, layered with the embroidered waistcoat that Valjean had gifted him the previous Christmas, its back panel a deep navy satin that hugs Javert’s waist with a delicately knotted bow.

Valjean forces his eyes away from the cinched fabric to note where the folded heap of Javert’s cravat yet lies on top of the desk, and beside it the simple, battered wooden hairbrush that was one of the few items Javert had brought with him to the Rue de l’Homme Armé all those years ago. His long waterfall of hair has been neatly brushed, and now needs only to be tied back into its customary queue; of late it is more grey than black, fanning out from his temples to fall in interlocking layers of iron and silver and gunmetal down nearly to Javert’s mid-back.

Valjean gently gathers the silky cascade of loose hair into his hand, stomach fluttering at the simple pleasure of his callused skin snagging on the thin strands—impossibly soft to the touch, and smelling faintly of the lavender and rosemary of their little bottle of hair oil.

He cannot resist sinking his fingers into where the hair grows thick at the other man’s nape, nails lightly scraping over Javert’s skull as he tugs a little more firmly at the hair clutched in his palm, the better to keep it straight and tidy for Javert’s queue—but a smile tugs at his lips at the quiet gasp Javert makes in response; the way Javert’s head tips back to follow the movement of Valjean’s hands in his hair.

“Do you have a second riband?” Valjean asks, enjoying the luxurious weight of Javert’s hair within his hand. His other rests at the juncture of Javert’s neck and shoulder, the heat of Javert’s skin seeping slowly through the material of his collar, Javert’s pulse strong and steady against Valjean’s palm. The impressive bristle of his whiskers brushes Valjean’s fingertips, and he looses a shuddering, indulgent exhale as Valjean’s thumb begins to rub in tiny, aimless circles; catching on the wisps of hair there, relaxing muscles that are always too tense, even so early in the morning.

“Another one?” Javert replies, bemused; even as he tilts his head into the tempting caress of Valjean’s fingertips, heedless of the way the angle pulls a lock of hair free of Valjean’s hold to tumble down his back, and Valjean ducks his head to press a kiss to the crown of Javert’s head.

“Perfect,” he says, withdrawing his hand from Javert’s throat to pull at the escaped hair. “I needed to separate it anyway; it’s been too long since I got to braid your hair for you.”

“It’s only been a few days, you old con,” Javert says, voice rasping faintly at the edges, shivering at each new touch of Valjean’s hand along his neck, the hinge of his jaw.

“Exactly,” Valjean agrees, “Nearly an eternity.”

He parts the thick layers of hair into sections, still running his hands through the glinting tangle shaded as mercury and coal and stardust. If Valjean could put a color to the glimmering constellations the other man will speak so fondly of—in that spare, gruff way of his whenever it is a matter of any importance to him—surely it would be here, in Valjean’s hands, coiled sleek and gleaming between each stout finger.

He carefully pulls and twists the familiar river of Javert’s hair into an orderly, uniform plait; resisting the urge to dither too long with the soft strands between his fingers, knowing it will only result in lopsided loops and frayed, frizzing ends. And while Valjean would hardly mind starting right back over from the beginning, Javert would likely insist on doing it himself the second time, for the sake of efficiency.

And so Valjean applies himself to the task as scrupulously as he knows the other man would do himself, the well-known rhythm soothing and intimate and over entirely too quickly by Valjean’s reckoning; the finished braid slipping easily from his hold to thump softly against Javert’s back.

“I don’t suppose you could grow your hair out longer still,” Valjean says, not entirely sure himself if he means it in jest. “I do so love to brush and braid it for you.”

The other man turns his head to look up at Valjean over one broad shoulder, his thin lips pulled down into a considering moue, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I would have no strong objections,” Javert says, his voice now steadied to its usual deep and resonant baritone. “Though it seems impractical. But you already know you may brush or braid it as often as you wish, whatever the length of my hair.”

“If I were to do this as often as I wished, I would need to be the one brushing out your hair morning and night,” Valjean replies, grinning in earnest now. He allows himself to tug gently at the tail of Javert’s plait, thinking ahead to the evening, when they prepare themselves for bed:

Javert changed from this more formal attire into his long, ruffed nightshirt, stockings yet in place in deference to the cold night; loosing the ribbons in his hair and fastidiously unwinding the individual strands until they fall in snaking waves down his back, enticing Valjean’s fingertips.

Valjean would want to trail his hands through the curls left by the braid; clasping messy handfuls in his work-roughened palms as he hauls Javert around to meet the other man’s mouth with his own, fingers buried in hair the color of quicksilver and glimmering to match the starlight falling through their bedroom window.

He would want to lace his fingers through the jumbled tresses falling around Javert’s shoulders and pull the other man closer to him, pressed chest to hip to thigh before walking Javert to their bed, slowly lowering the other man to lie beneath him on the plush duvet, Valjean’s hands still pulling at Javert’s hair as it spilled across the bedding, and—

“—jean,” Javert says. He sounds very much like this is not the first time in the past few minutes that he has called Valjean’s name. “Jean.”

Valjean blinks. The sunlight peeping through their curtains looks, perhaps, brighter than he last recalls. It is still early in the morning, with a long day yet ahead of them; and Javert’s expression has drifted somewhere between fondness and an amused exasperation as he says, “Are you still tired? It’s early yet, you could nap for a while longer…”

“No, no,” Valjean waves the suggestion away, cheeks heating as he determinedly sets aside his wandering thoughts and their decidedly inopportune nature; it will do him no good to keep thinking that way, with a trip to the Pontmercy-Gillenormand househould and a half-dozen errands ahead of them before nightfall—and any potential reenactment of his imaginings. “I’m not tired at all; I simply was a bit lost in thought, planning out our day.”

He pauses, and adds, with an attempt at nonchalance he knows will not fool Javert for even a moment: “But I may take you up on your earlier suggestion, if you will permit me to brush your hair out tonight.”

An eyebrow creeps up Javert’s forehead, deepening the creases cut across it by time and age and experience, and the ghost of a smirk plays around the corners of his mouth as he replies with a knowing, “Indeed?”

He tosses his head, braid swinging over his shoulder as he faces forward once more, picking up the cravat lying on the desk before him to loop it around his neck. The cravat had been a gift from Valjean as well, to match the waistcoat—and Javert slips it beneath the rope of his braid and edges of his collar, to fasten it expertly at the hollow of his throat. Once complete, his hands pull away from his neck, and he swallows; the elegant knot of the cravat bobbing in time with the motion.

Javert glances at Valjean from the corner of one eye, where a single coil of hair has been missed by Valjean’s handiwork; now lying tucked against the crow’s feet that deepen when Javert smiles. He murmurs: “As I said; whatever you wish, my Jean.”

[ghouletteanon]

Mushy May: Day 27 - Reading together

The mushiest of mornings. I wish Copia would wear formal clothes like shirts and pressed trousers more, but in my heart I know Copia will always pick the tracksuit if he can get away with it. But that just means I can make Aether wear the formal clothes instead.

As usual, prompt list for Mushy May can be found here, curated by the amazing @forlorn-crows.

Relationships: Aether/Copia

Summary: Copia and Aether enjoy a quiet morning over breakfast in the Abbey's band ghoul quarters.

Word count: 714

Rating: Gen

It’s a quiet dance with well-practiced steps that happens every weekday in the ghoul quarters. Even if Copia technically has his own kitchen or he could take his morning coffee at his office or the refractory, he still shares this early morning hour with Aether.

They are both dressed for the day. Copia is wearing his casual red tracksuit, as he is not needed in the role of Papa today and will be working with new material for the Ghost project. It was still Balenciaga, of course. He still has taste.

Aether, on the other hand, is in all black, in his shirtsleeves and wearing pressed trousers but with his tailored black jacket hanging from the back of his chair. His silver mask, resembling the one he wore back when Copia was still a cardinal, is placed on the table. Aether’s outfit is not a uniform, per say, but all ghouls need to look their best when running errands for the church.

Copia mumbles something similar to a “good morning” to Aether, who replies with wordless hum, and starts preparing coffee in the moka pot kept in the ghoul kitchen just for him. There are frying pans full of eggs, bacon, omelets, and mushrooms waiting on the stove for when the other ghouls wake up but Copia moves one of them to the side so he can put the coffee on.

The radio is on in the background, playing some sort of Swedish morning show that Copia barely understands but the sentiment is there, and the music is pleasant. While waiting for the moka pot to bubble, Copia warms up milk in a small pot on the stove, stirring it with a wooden spoon makes sure he does not burn it again. Somewhere in the background Copia can hear the rustle as Aether turns the next page of his newspaper. It’s nice.

Aether hands over the section of newspaper that he’s already finished to Copia as he sits down next to him at the kitchen table, mug filled to the brim with milk and coffee in hand. His favorite breakfast biscotti are already in a bowl on the table, courtesy of Aether’s forethinking. Copia leans over and pecks him on the cheek and thanks him softly, his voice still rough from sleep, “Grazie, amore.”

“Prego,” Aether replies, knowing full well how much it means to Copia to hear his native tongue.

Copia puts on his reading glasses and opens the newspaper on the table. He picks up a cocoa and hazelnut biscuit, dips it in his coffee and starts reading. They sit in comfortable silence. The domesticity of this routine is a comfort Copia had not had the luxury of experiencing before becoming a part of what the ghouls referred to as pack.

The clock strikes seven, the radio starts playing the local news. Aether gets up and puts his jacket on, taking his dishes to the sink. “Duty calls, time to go out and serve the Old One. Give the pack my love and I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Of course, of course,” Copia looks up from his paper, just in time as Aether walks by to pick up his mask. Copia stops him before gets the mask on and pulls Aether in for a kiss with a hand on the back of his neck. Their lips move together, smudging Copia’s face paint and spreading it to Aether’s lips but Copia does not care as he can always touch up on it later.

They part before the kiss turns more heated, knowing neither of them have time to start something right now. Aether dries his lips off with the back of his hand and puts on the mask, activating the glamor that makes him look more human and hides his tail and horns. Copia makes an appreciative sound as Aether obliges him, spinning around to give him a proper look and Copia leans over to smack his ass. “You look amazing as always, amore.”

“So do you,” Aether chuckles, rubbing his ass if the smack had hurt as he leaves.

Copia puts his glasses back on and picks up a pencil. The crossword puzzle is calling his name and he has less than fifteen minutes before the kitchen is overrun with hungry ghouls.

[bolworth-birthday-bet]

Scale the wall of the hall

You saunter out of the French windows into the night, looking nonchalant and devil-may-care and, you're sure, dashingly mysterious, and not at all like a burglar casing the joint. 

The thought makes a shiver run through your spine. After all, if you weren't intimately familiar with the long arm of the law, you wouldn't be here at all. What's a policeman's helmet to a man who has never tangled with the authorities? Nothing. You do not fancy the idea of being thrown in the slammer and having to have an aunt bail you out again. They never let you forget about it! 

But, to task. You case the joint.

There is no handy ladder resting against the wall of the rose garden, alas. But there is a bench, and if you stand on that bench, there is a handhold you can reach. You manage to haul yourself up a little bit, the toe of your shoe catching on the shoulder of a relief carving of a wild hog, and reach up for another handhold.

A difficult, slow climb gets you up to a windowsill of the first floor. It is then that you begin to realize this may have been a bad idea. You are already sweating and slipping, and none of the windows are open. You hadn't thought of that.

But, what's this? A window to the left of you and a bit above is thrown open, nearly startling you into a fall. You rally, but the handsome face that appears at the window nearly does you in again. It is the famous Captain Brown, leaning out for a smoke. 

You look at him. He looks at you.

"Not to presume," he drawls in his American accent, "but might you be needing a hand there, son?"

"I wouldn't want to impose," you say, your knuckles white and your legs trembling. 

"It would be my pleasure. Please." He leans back in and when he returns, he is holding a lion-tamer's whip. Ah, of course… Joseph Brown is daredevil pilot, a lover of great renown, and also a lion-tamer. Why not. 

He throws out the whip's lash, and you catch it with one hand. As you do, your hold slips, and you end up clinging to it for dear life. The captain grunts but does not let go, and hauls you up bodily, still curled up around his whip. 

"Thank you ever so much," you say as you find solid wood under your feet again, and dust off your trousers, now slightly torn. 

"Don't mention it." Without being asked, he pours you a bracing glass of whiskey from an open bottle on the writing desk, which you gladly accept. 

You look around the room, and find you are in one of Kenwell Hall's guest rooms. There is the captain's coat, resting over a chair (he is in his shirtsleeves, forearms on display), and there is a pile of books, some opened on maps of exciting far-off locations. 

Well! You've made it to the first floor. 

As the warmth of the brandy seeps through your system, you wonder--is it really true, all that nonsense they say about him? Looking at him now, gazing back at you with those brown, laughing eyes, you could almost believe it.

Poll 7

[akirakirxaa]

“Do you regret it?” (Solus/Valeria)

[Ask prompts here! I'm so excited, this is my first ask for Valeria, I hope you like it!]

Valeria lay curled up on their plush chair before the fireplace, book in hand but not reading it as she stared pensively into the flames, lost in thought. She had long since gotten used to her husband returning late from his many meetings and duties, but rather than going to bed without him as he always insisted, she waited. Going to sleep without him always felt like she would wake the next day to it all having been a dream, and now she was back in her wretched family's attic with her stepmother screaming up that breakfast should have been ready by now. No, she didn't need those nightmares. So she waited.

She had just started to doze, curled up on the chair with her head on the arm, when she heard familiar, unhurried footsteps outside. A moment later the door to their sitting room creaked open slowly, as if he was trying not to wake her. Foolish, she always woke when he finally came to join her, if she had slept at all. At this point it felt more like a dance, just their way of greeting each other after a long day apart.

"Still awake, I see," Solus said, as if it were a surprise, as he removed his coat, leaving him in just his shirtsleeves and trousers. "How was your day, dearest?" Valeria stretched, sitting back up properly in her chair.

"Hmmm, better now that you're here," she gave a smile, gathering her dressing gown around her. He crossed their sitting room, taking one hand and planting a kiss on the back. Valeria couldn't help the heat in her face; the woman could be taken from the common citizenry but the mindset could never quite be gotten rid of. At least she wasn't quite as flustered as when they first met, the emperor of the entire country treating her like the height of royalty when she wasn't even meant to be there.

"Glad to be of service," he gave her a little crooked smile before settling on the couch, and for a while they sat in comfortable silence.

Well, almost comfortable.

Valeria dropped her book, and as she bent to get it she let her golden hair fall in her face, hiding her but not completely blocking her vision. She glanced up at her husband, and there it was. The reason she felt so pensive tonight.

For quite some time now, she noticed that any time he thought he wasn't being watched, he looked at her with a horribly sorrowful expression. It was hard to catch, and disappeared as fast as she noticed it, but she knew for sure he was hiding something from her. She settled back in her chair and thought for a long moment.

"Do you regret it?" she broached the silence, swallowing her nerves. She felt him staring at her.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you regret it?" she repeated, meeting his bright yellow gaze. "Marrying me? A... commoner? Someone of no importance?" He frowned at her.

"Where is this coming from?"

"I see how you look at me when you think I'm not looking. You appear so sad, so I couldn't help but wonder..." she trailed off, glancing away and fidgeting with her hands. Another few moments of silence.

"Come here, my dear," he held one arm out to her, and she crossed over to him, sliding onto the sofa and into his side. He wrapped his arm around her comfortingly.

"I don't regret us, not for a moment," he tilted her face toward him gently as he spoke. "There's no one I'd rather have as my empress." She searched his face for a lie that wasn't there.

"Then why...?"

"Because I want more for you." She couldn't help the small giggle at his words.

"More? We're already royalty, in a powerful country. I have an entire palace, the best food money can buy, all the assistance I could ask for, for anything I might need, what else could I ever ask for?"

"A better world," he clarified, resting his cheek on her head. "One where there are no wars, where all nations are one, working together. One of peace." Valeria sighed, leaning more fully on his shoulder.

"Sounds like a dream," she mumbled.

"I don't think it has to be," he countered, and she felt like he was still holding something back. But before she could press more, he stood, crossed to their imported orchestrion, and put on a quiet piano piece. He turned back to her with a soft smile.

"Dance with me?" She snorted, but stood anyways, taking his hand.

"You," she accused as they swayed in a slow circle, no thought put into the steps, "are trying to distract me." He kissed her forehead, just above her third eye, and she could feel his amused grin.

"Is it working?"

"A little."

With one finger under her chin, he tilted her head back to capture her lips in a kiss, and Valeria melted into it, her hands clenching in his shirt. He nipped at her lower lip, and she let out a quiet whimper. He took her by one hand and broke away, leading her back towards their bedchambers.

"I think," his voice had dropped lower, holding her gaze as he walked backwards. "It's time for us to retire for the eve." Valeria couldn't help the girlish giggle or the blush on her cheeks as she stumbled eagerly after him.

"I was just thinking the same thing."

[amypihcs]

And ended up writing something for this fanart, since it's far too sweet and it triggered the romantic in me.

Hope you like it <3

Holmes sweet Holmes

Watson could not think to any other way to describe his life in Sussex with Holmes as heavenly.

Retirement hadn’t been the easiest decision for a man as married to his work as Holmes, but a mix of both of them starting to age, Holmes had reacted terribly to starting to need reading glasses as he approached 50, a society more and more different to what they were used to, cases getting progressively weirder and some of their oldest friends at Yard retiring themselves had driven them into it.

Their luck had been retiring rather young, Holmes had just turned 50 and he 52, and so adapting to their new life hadn’t been difficult; and whoever knew Holmes knew for sure that his supposed life of leisure wouldn’t have been so much less active than the life of the London criminal agent. But still, the cottage was a safe heaven for them. A place where to relax and love each other. A place where they could live as truly themselves, where Holmes could shed the Great Detective’s mask, even if he sometimes kept that on, even after years, it was comforting for him to hide behind it at times, as it had been in London.

As a result from their freedom there, Holmes rather disliked going to town and so he avoided it as much as possible. That morning Doctor Watson had left at dawn, leaving his husband with a kiss on his forehead, the breakfast ready and a note that he would be back by midday, and in fact there he was, having completed all his errands.

And there Holmes was, in his shirtsleeves and dark trousers, observing something in the garden, near the roses. Watson smiled as his Holmes nimbly jumped to his feet as he heard him approaching.

“Watson! – he smiled – You’re back early my dear!”

The doctor laughed and quickened his pace to get to him “Hello Holmes. – he greeted – I started early to be back early. For you.” He smiled and then his smile turned into a wide grin as his Holmes’, the cold, calculating detective’s, eyes got wide and soft as he saw the sunflowers he had got him.

“John. – he embraced his partner, mindful of the flowers – My sun. Thank you.” He kissed his husband’s lips softly and then leaned down to make their foreheads touch.

The doctor smiled as well, caressing his husband’s sharp cheekbone, and giving him another quick, sweet kiss. “Nothing to thank me for, my love.”

“We should get them into a sunny place, until you don’t manage to plant them. – The detective grinned as his doctor’s eyes got wide with surprise and silenced him with a finger on his lips – Shush, my John, don’t protest. If you didn’t want to plant them at some point you wouldn’t have got them in a vase already, that’s…”

“So absurdly simple.” Smirked Watson, mischievous as he circled his partner’s waist with an arm.

“Everything is absurdly simple when it’s explained to you, mon Coeur. – Laughed the detective – As handsome as you are in this suit, I have no doubt you want to change clothes, dear.”

“Indeed, darling. I love you.” He reached up to kiss his cheek and still lingered, leaning his head on his shoulder for a moment.

“I love you too, my conductor of light. I’ll find a place for the flowers, you get comfortable.” Replied his husband.

The doctor thanked him and kissed him once more, laughing as his Holmes tried to tickle him through his waistcoat as they broke the kiss.

Their retired life was truly heaven. And for many years Watson hadn’t dared to hope to have so much luck in his life. Being proven wrong wasn’t so bad, after all.

old gays for ghostbees WHO IS THE BEST PERSON IN THE WORLD

[thebadgerclan]

Routine

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x reader x Kate Sharma

Requested by Anonymous

Summary: Kate does love her routine...

Smut!

keematee-percious

Kathani Sharma had a routine, and she stuck to it like clockwork.  She would rise, have breakfast with you and Anthony, return upstairs to dress, work on her needlework in the drawing room, where you would sometimes join her; crawling into her lap for cuddles, before spending a few hours attending to her duties.  Her afternoons were spent with you and her husband, as were the evenings, before readying for bed and doing it all again the next day.

Kate valued her routine, it gave sense to otherwise often hectic days.  But when the Viscountess was exiting hers and Anthony’s joint study and heard passionate moans coming from the drawing room, she knew her routine was going to be interrupted.  She peered through the door, finding you with your back pressed to the wall, your skirts hitched over your waist, legs wrapped around Anthony’s hips.  Kate smiled, feeling arousal pool in her belly as she watched the two of you.

“Do not quiet yourself, my sweet,” Anthony moaned, and your head tipped back to rest against the wall.  “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”  “A-Anthony, oh, yes!” you cried, your arms wound around his neck, fingers in his hair.  “Yes, please don’t stop!”  The Viscount let out a low growl, kissing your neck as he fucked you.  He hadn’t bothered undressing: merely unfastened his trousers and pushed them to his knees, his jacket, waistcoat, cravat, and shirtsleeves remained intact.

Kate took a step forward, barely entering the room.  “Anthony, please, I’m close.”  Her husband groaned into your neck, squeezing where his hands rested on your bottom.  “Yes, my love.  Come for me, come all over my cock.”  Your moans increased in volume and intensity, punctuated by Anthony’s praises of “Yes,” and “Good girl.”  As you met your high, the Viscountess stepped fully into the drawing room, unseen and unheard over your pleasure.

She heard her husband grunt his release, saw his legs tremble as he came, and when you were able to open your eyes, she smiled.  “Kate, I…”  “Do not think to stop on my account, keematee,” she said.  “Please, continue.”  You’d been momentarily sated by Anthony, but seeing Kate standing there had reignited your arousal, and you reached in her direction.  “Kate,” you whimpered.  “Kate, please, touch me.”  Anthony smirked, carrying you to the sofa and lying you down while Kate came to kneel at your side, and kissed you deeply.

“This is a pleasant surprise, I must say,” she said, parting your thighs and eyeing your dripping cunt.  She could see her husband’s seed dripping from you, and she leaned forward to lick your slit, the taste of your arousal and Anthony’s release mingling on her tongue.  “Divine, my darling,” Kate praised, beginning to eat you out in the way only she could.  Perhaps it was because she was a woman and knew where to touch or perhaps it was because she loved you so much and knew your body so well, but Kate had you on the precipice of orgasm in minutes.

In those minutes, Anthony had gotten hard again, and came to stand behind his wife.  He rested his hands on her hips questioningly, silently asking for consent.  Kate removed her mouth from your pussy, making you whimper, turning over her shoulder to look at her husband.  “When have I ever denied you, husband?”  Anthony smiled wickedly, pushing her skirts up and lining his cock up with her entrance.

He thrust forward, making Kate cry out, which in turn made you cry out.  The three of you fell into a beautiful rhythm; moaning your pleasure and praises of the others, clutching at hands and hips, whatever you could reach, desperate for contact.  Anthony was not gentle, he fucked his wife hard and fast, much the same as how he’d fuck you moments ago.  Kate was grasping at your hand, and you grasped right back, while Anthony kept one hand on Kate’s back, the other reaching to touch your thigh.

You felt your peak drawing near, and when it arrived, you let it crest with a moan of Kate’s name.  An instant later, Kate met her release, and soon after that, Anthony spilled himself within her.  The three of you were breathless and limp, and Anthony managed to fall onto the sofa at your side, tugging his wife to lie atop the two of you.  “Kate,” you said, and she looked up at you.  “Do you have to work today?”

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to your cheek.  “I suppose I can break my routine for just one day, seeing as you two have shattered it already.”  “Do not blame me, wife,” Anthony said, a playful tease in his voice.  “Y/N was the one who accosted me.”  You laughed, squeezing your lovers’ hands.  “Hush, you two,” the Viscountess chastised, though she was smiling.  “Once my legs are functional again, we will retire to bed, where we can spend all night together.”  You hummed happily, your eyes unwillingly slipping closed.  “That sounds nice.”

[vukovich]

Chapter Four

He smelled pot smoke at 4:21 and found Malfoy at 4:22.  Wurst had led him to a bathing area in the back of the kennel, and Malfoy had been towel-drying a small, white dog.  He wore a long plastic apron, and was in rather nice trousers, barefoot, with his shirtsleeves rolled up.

He also had a spliff hanging out of the corner of his mouth.  When Harry entered, Malfoy glanced up from the dog, hummed a greeting, and held the spliff out.

Tendrils of smoke came from his lips before his words.  “Do you partake?” he asked, and blew smoke over his shoulder.

Harry shook his head, dumbfounded that anyone would offer drugs to an Auror in full, albeit rumpled, regalia.

He gestured to Wurst’s leash in his hand.  “I’m an Auror.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, then nodded towards Wurst.  “So is he, but you don’t see him having a fit.”

“Do you know there’s a bloody werewolf in your office?” Harry said, more as an accusation than a question.

“Rubicon?” Draco asked.  He twisted the corner of the towel into a point and dried inside the dog’s ears.

“I didn’t stop to ask his fucking name.”

Malfoy hummed and dried the dog’s other ear.  Its back foot kicked aimlessly against the table.  “Her.”

“What?”

“Rubicon’s a ‘her’.  Surprised you didn’t notice the belly.”  He tossed the towel over his shoulder.  “Or… Say, there weren’t puppies in my office, were there?”

Harry blinked at him.  “I was more worried about being eaten than finding puppies.”

“Probably wise.  She’s not one to cross, Rubicon.  And she’s an Irish wolfhound, not a werewolf.”

“I’m not a dog expert.”

“No,” Malfoy said.  He clicked his tongue twice, gestured towards the hall of kennels, and watched the dog hop down from the table, then shake.  “But I would expect an Auror, especially a canine unit Auror, to know the difference between a werewolf and a large dog.”

“Whatever.”  Harry fought the urge to brush his hair away from his eyes, and his ears, and scratch the back of his neck where it tickled his skin.

The little dog’s ears bounced as it made its way to an open kennel, then went inside.

Malfoy’s attention turned to Wurst.  He clicked his tongue twice, very precisely.  Immediately, Wurst tried to go to him, but hit the end of the leash.  He turned back and rolled big brown eyes up at Harry, as if begging to let him go to a man he clearly preferred.

Harry tossed the leash handle towards Malfoy, but he didn’t move to grab it.  It dragged across the floor.

Wurst sniffed Malfoy’s toes, wagged his tail, and sat at attention at Malfoy’s feet.

“Auror Rotterdam,” Malfoy said stiffly.  Wurst held up a paw.  Malfoy bent down to shake it.  “Pleasure to see you again.”

“He won’t even ‘sit’ for me,” Harry grumbled.

“Well,” Malfoy said, peering into Wurst’s ear, then checking the other, “likely, he doesn’t feel particularly bonded to you.”  He rubbed a finger around the inside of Wurst’s ear.  It came away black, and he frowned.  “When’s the last time you bathed him?”

Harry scratched the back of his neck.  “Uhm…”

Malfoy picked up Wurst’s leash.  “Recently?”

“Uhm…”

Malfoy’s disappointed glare traveled down Harry’s body, softening into a concerned scowl by the time he reached Harry’s shoes.  Harry had the sudden urge to hide the tattered toes of his work boots.

Harry swallowed dry, and it sounded conspicuously loud.

After biting the inside of his lip for a moment, Malfoy nodded over his shoulder, towards a row of tubs, then softly said, “Follow me.”

--

24K9

A daily(?) kinktober 2023 fic. Will post to AO3 on American Thanksgiving, 2023.

Harry is a K9 unit Auror. Draco is the Ministry Kennelmaster. How could that possibly lead to anything?

Tags: collaring, top Draco, sensual pet play, touch starved Harry, bathing, shaving, rescue dog feels, other tags TBA, maybe dark draco ending?, maybe werewolves?, definitely coming untouched though, just blasting rope man

--

Chapter One

“I assure you, Auror Potter,” drawled the Patronus, speaking even before it found its full form, “there is nothing wrong with your partner.”

Malfoy’s tone was patronising, as though he were telling Harry that the monsters under his bed weren’t real, and to go back to sleep.

Next to Harry’s desk, his ‘partner’ had managed to catch his tail and was currently gnawing on it with nothing short of ardour.  K9 Auror Wurst, aka RottWurst, clamped down on his fluffy tail so hard, Harry swore he heard a crunch.

The bright fog condensed into a direwolf the size of a modest pony.  It was the perfect symbol for Draco Malfoy.  A pale, leggy, sharp-toothed relic of another time.

“And I assure you,” Harry spat, “Kennelmaster Malfoy, that this mutt’s fucking touched in the head.”

The mutt in question was eighty-plus pounds of Rottweiler-poodle abomination.  He looked like a St Bernard had dug into an avalanche, missed the humans, and hit a thousand-volt power line instead.  The curly white fur on his belly was caked with mud, and his brown muzzle still had bits of grass clippings on it.  The rest of him was black, save his brown eyebrows and speckled ears.

“He keeps alerting to sex magic, not dark magic.  It’s fucking embarrassing.  Dragged me across Hyde Park.  I had to use a Confundus on him to get him back to the office.”

The direwolf was so still that Harry blinked twice to make sure the shape wasn’t burned into his retinas.  It was a bloody showboat of a Patronus.

It was so bright that it brought out the dinginess of Harry’s office.  The yellow carpet had a pale brown trail between the door and Harry’s desk chair.  The corners of the ceiling had cobwebs, and the baseboards held an unhealthy amount of dust.

The fresh dog piss on the floor didn’t help things.

“I mean, he’s not worthless,” Harry added.  “But Robards said he can’t reassign him to Vice.  That he doesn’t have that authority.  So it must be you who has to do it.”

It was a little risky to bypass Robards the way he had, contacting Malfoy directly.  He probably should have made an appointment with his assistant or something.

But he’d been angry, so he’d pulled an interdepartmental priority Howler out of his desk and sent it.

There was probably a DMLE protocol for contacting a member of the Wizengamot.  There was a DMLE protocol for everything but wiping his arse.  Actually, they probably had one for that, too.

Harry blinked again.  His eyes were dry.  He was on hour seven of a twelve-hour shift.  After this, he’d get another coffee.

The direwolf shifted its weight, then leaned back, hindquarters high, in a deep stretch.  Its paws spread out in front of it.

Harry wondered if Malfoy was actually stretching.  And what that might look like.

It’d been years since he’d seen Malfoy in person.  Just in the papers, and only in the background of Wizengamot photos.  He’d been called to his Wizengamot seat the day after his thirtieth birthday, having met the minimum age.  They hadn’t called Hermione to hers until she was thirty-two.  She’d die mad about that.

The direwolf laid down, then yawned.

Harry yawned.

Wurst yawned.  Then farted.

Harry thought to check the time.  2:30 AM, according to his wristwatch.  He’d been on the clock for fourteen hours.  Not seven.

“Shit,” Harry said.

He’d woken a member of the Wizengamot at 2:30 AM.  And an important one.  

The direwolf sighed and tucked its muzzle under its paw.  Harry held his breath.  Maybe Malfoy would fall asleep.

Maybe he’d doze off, and he’d think he dreamt he got a Howler in the middle of the night from a burnout beat cop at least six rungs below him.  Maybe.

The direwolf sighed again, then drifted away like will-o'-the-wisps on the wind.

Maybe Malfoy wouldn’t report this.

Maybe.

Maybe Robards wouldn’t kill him.

He drummed his fingers on his desk.  If he did get written up, it’d be his sixth this year.  Two of them were for failing to meet dress code, but the shaving regulations were stupid, and the hygiene one was just weird.

Still.  

Wurst looked at him.  He looked at Wurst.

Nothing would happen.  His talk with Malfoy had only lasted a few seconds.  He’d think it was a dream.

It would be fine.

“It’ll be fine,” Harry told Wurst, ignoring the sweat on his palms.

Wurst’s nostrils flared, and then an ivory envelope slid under the door.  It sat on the grimy carpet for a moment, then folded itself into a swan.  With a few wingbeats, it landed on Harry’s desk and unfolded itself.

Inside was a business card.

Draco L Malfoy Wizengamot Member, Kennelmaster Warminster BA13 4SH UK

“Shit,” Harry said.

He flipped the card over.  On the back was an appointment date and time.  Tomorrow.

“Fuck.”

Robards was going to kill him.

--

[bourbonboatsandbows]

Jeremy-Pile, the Victor’s Domovoi

Happy Birthday @lorata! Also to my grandmother-in-law in Lviv, may the Domovoi remain every vigilant. Unbeta’ed—I’ll absorb my blows like Creed does in nearly every universe @lorata comes up with.

Jeremy does not know what happiness is, because Jeremy is, in fact, a sentient pile of clothing. But if they were to know happiness, it would be this—slow mornings with sunlight while Creator Misha adds more bits and bobs to Jeremy; Creator Devon sitting amongst the bits and bobs and adding “friendship bracelets” (what is friendship? Jeremy does not know but Creator Devon never tries to take bits and bobs without adding more so now Creator Devon is part of the House), and Creator Emory, ever so often, adds something soft and handmade.

The Creator Lyme and the Hairless Intruder appear occasionally. Jeremy knows of the Hairless Intruder’s malevolent intent and proclivity to theft, however, and every time the Hairless Intruder attempts to get closer to Jeremy, Jeremy untangles and shakes a trouser leg threateningly in their direction. This brings great joy to Creator Lyme, which in turn brings joy to Jeremy. Jeremy has also met new Creators beyond Callista the Underclothed One who Accompanies Eustace, Bartleby, and Octavius—there is Nero Who Needs a Pile, and Ronan with the Cane. Jeremy does not know what a Cane is until Ronan appears, but Jeremy knows it is not in the Pile. Jeremy wants it in the Pile. And so, Jeremy tries to add the Cane to themselves, but Ronan is quick and clever and says, “None of that now,” as Jeremy slowly starts trying to absorb them. The next visit, Ronan brings a tin with roses on the lid, and Jeremy promptly absorbs it so that it never sees daylight again.

Jeremy is vast at this point—they contain multitudes, most of which being socks, trousers, and sweatshirts of varying stages of cleanliness. But time goes on, and sometimes Jeremy is large enough to encompass the couch and other times, there is space for another Creator to sit and be slowly entangled in shirtsleeves. There is always time and space, however, for a Creator that simply needs to sit and be still within Jeremy-Pile. It alternates between Creators Devon and Emory, and so Jeremy remembers which things they like the most, which fabrics are the softest, and which “friendship bracelet” makes Devon smile the most. 

Until one evening, when Creators Emory, Devon, and Misha all sit amongst Jeremy-Pile. They are still, until “if it’s you and Brutus, Emory, I’ll go in.”

There is silence. Jeremy does not know how to respond. There are three Creators who are silent and still, and something fetid and broken lingers in the air like when Eustace vomited in the Hairless Intruder’s shirt.

Time passes. More things get added to the pile—bits and bobs of Emory, Devon, Misha, Lyme, Claudius (who stares suspiciously and minds his hands), and even the Hairless Intruder. Jeremy unearths things as they are needed, but something is wrong. Something is missing and Jeremy-Pile does not know what it is.

Creator Devon comes back first. Devon, who was the first to see Jeremy; Devon who leaves friendship bracelets for Jeremy. Devon explains that Creators Misha and Lyme, with the Hairless Intruder, will be gone for a while. Devon, who sits amongst the bits and bobs, and stares at their hands and says, “I don’t know if Brutus will be coming back.” The Hairless Intruder has a name and it is Brutus. Where did they go? Did they try stealing from another Pile and get absorbed? If they stole from another Pile, then Jeremy-Pile could trade something for them to come back.

Creator Misha comes back eventually, but she seems different. She seems lessened like on the days that Jeremy-Pile must forego bits and bobs because Creator Lyme says they smell. She is like a Pile but without trousers, or socks, or Creator Lyme’s woodsmoke smelling sweatshirt. Jeremy-Pile has kept the house much cleaner for Creator Misha, and there is a divot amongst the softer things—the things that Creator Misha likes best.

She sits in the divot, with her hands in her hair, and says, “She knew. She fucking knew and she left me.” Jeremy-Pile does not know who “she” is, but Jeremy-Pile will never leave. They are part of the House now.

Time passes and Creator Misha sleeps mostly in the Pile now. Callista the Unclothed One brings The Cats Named Octavius, Bartleby, and Eustace, and they tell Jeremy-Pile more—that the other Creators went to a place called “The Capital” and that the Hairless Intruder is gone forever (not absorbed by another Pile) and that Creator Lyme is gone too. Until one day, Creator Devon comes running in and speaks directly to Jeremy-Pile.

“We have to leave for a while, we don’t know how long we’ll be gone. I need to pack a bag for Misha but I don’t know what she likes and I don’t know what she needs and I don’t want to be strangled by a t-shirt. Can you help?”

Jeremy-Pile knows how to help. Jeremy-Pile brings together socks, t-shirts, and trousers—all of the necessities that Creator Misha needs. Even the blue woodsmoke sweatshirt. Jeremy-Pile also brings soft things from the Hairless Intruder that Creator Devon likes, friendship bracelets, and a blanket for Creator Emory. There’s even a vomit-less sweater that Creator Misha embroidered for Eustace.

Devon leaves. The House is silent and still.

Until one day, when the door to the house is kicked open. There is noise outside and people shouting, but it had been too muffled for Jeremy-Pile to understand. The door being kicked open—this, Jeremy-Pile understands. They are real invaders. They are not guests.

“There’s not as much here,” a person says moving around. “Lyme’s place had the good booze, and Claudius had those instruments, but what the fuck does Artemisia have? Sex tapes?”

The crowd laughs at that, mean and low. Jeremy-Pile does not like these people. They are thieves and invaders, and they smell like day-old vomit and sweat.

Someone reaches towards Jeremy-Pile— “Maybe we can go through this pile of shit and find something good in it? Look at this-- it’s covered in roses so that must mean it’s from the President. You know that’s good shit.”

Jeremy-Pile lets them take that. They cannot sense the wrongness of the tin, and Jeremy-Pile has been holding onto it for a very long time at Creator Ronan’s behest.

The Crowd presses closer to Jeremy-Pile, and like any House Guardian knows, timing and space are important to making a guest feel welcome. Or unwelcome, as it were.

As they dig into the Pile, Jeremy starts unleashing all of their trouser legs, t-shirts, and sweatshirts. They are a mass of targeted appendages, each one intent on strangling or snapping the neck of the intruder. It is not long before someone falls into Jeremy-Pile and is suffocated by Bartleby’s old sweater. There is something ignominious about being strangled to death by a cat sweater, but they are the ones without any honor or courtesy and this is Jeremy-Pile’s Home.

The Crowd, by this point, has started screaming as they watch a scarf, beautifully embroidered with “Leave Me the Fuck Alone,” strangle someone else. They fall over themselves, running away, and the slow ones are trapped by scarves, trouser legs, and t-shirts. There are three bodies on the floor by the time the crowd is gone, not counting the two absorbed into the Pile, and the floor is quite dirty. But Jeremy-Pile has time before Creator Misha comes back, and cleaning the House is their job.

By the time Jeremy-Pile has finished cleaning, there are only four new trousers, three shirts, and eight pairs of socks. Some of the new trousers had been soiled by the invaders’ fear and some of the shirts smelled of sweat and vomit—Jeremy-Pile only tolerates Eustace’s vomit on sweaters, because the sweaters are small. The tin is gone, but the person who took it died outside* and has been taken away by others.

Creator Misha and Devon come back. Creator Devon is much smaller now, but Creator Misha says he can share more of his clothing now that he doesn’t need full-length trousers. In fact, Creator Misha tosses embroidered half trouser legs onto Jeremy-Pile— “I made these for you, because Devon doesn’t need the bottom half of his pants anymore.”

Creator Devon simply stares at Jeremy-Pile, who is very pleased to see them. There are new bits and bobs inside of the pile, courtesy of the invaders, and so Jeremy-Pile brings them to the forefront. The new trousers and shirts are there, for example, and a t-shirt that is red like blood but does not actually have blood.

“Missha, you’ve never had District 13 issued pants. No one in the Village had a blood red t-shirt or gray District 13-issued shirts. Where did these come from? Where are the bodies?”

But Jeremy-Pile is a good House Guardian, and does not divulge their secrets. *Mithraditism is definitely a thing, and Ronan has it. No one else could eat the poison biscuits without keeling over given how long Ronan’s been eating it.

[ariadne-mouse]

The Cottage of Forbidden Things

A Shadowgast ficlet using words from as many banned "sensitive" tumblr tags as possible in the most innocuous ways possible.

2082 words, rated G.

—

“Are you sure about this?”

Essek looked skeptically at the thatch-roofed cottage. His tastes had humbled considerably since moving his life outside of the Dynasty, but his noble refinement remained. His eyes lingered on the slightly lopsided door frame, the mud brick washed in milky paint, the crack in the wide, flat stone laid before the door as a stoop.

“It’s perfect,” Caleb answered, and when Essek saw how his eyes crinkled as he looked upon these same details, he voiced no further doubt.

The cottage was cool inside, and only had one room. There was a hearth with a stone chimney, a pot-bellied iron stove, a wooden farm table with two chairs, a small cupboard, and a bed with a beautiful patchwork quilt. Bunches of herbs and flowers hung from the eaves, perhaps for cooking or medicine. The most important feature, however, was—

“Hallo meine lieben Katzen!” Caleb cooed, going to lavish greetings upon not one, not two, but three cats who had all made themselves comfortable on the floor around the dying fire. “Aren’t you a charming little pussy cat. And you, and you. Oh, you are all wonderful.”

Essek smiled to himself. Yes, this place was not so bad, perhaps.

—

Something was tickling Essek’s chin. When he opened his eyes he saw it was not Caleb’s beard, but the whiskers of a cat — the one with grey fur as smooth as satin had curled up next to him and begun to lick its paw.

A cock’s crow sounded from somewhere in the distance. It was so early that the light from the small cottage windows was still grey. Caleb had stoked the little fire, and there was a kettle on the iron stove, simmering away with a wisp of steam. Caleb himself was not there, however. As Essek put his feet on the cold stone floor, he heard a thunk-clatter from outside. He quickly rolled on thick woolen stockings — a pair of Caleb’s he had been loaned — and went to investigate.

Caleb was chopping wood on a stump outside. He was clearly in his element, his motions fluid and practiced, alternating between splitting rounds of wood with the blade of the axe and using the butt of it to knock stubborn pieces apart. Essek was used to Caleb’s competency with somatics, but this was a different kind of elegance. He watched until Caleb gathered some wood in his arms and returned inside.

“Ah! You are up,” Caleb said, his cheeks pink from the morning chill. “I was surprised to see you sleep instead of trance, but our journey here has been long. Did you rest well?”

“I did,” Essek said, realizing as he said it that it was true. Despite the rickety bedframe, lumpy wool-and-chaff stuffing in the mattress, and heavy quilt, he had slept hard and woken refreshed.

“Good!” Caleb set the wood in a basket by the stove. He’d split the pieces smaller than they needed for the fireplace, the easier for feeding into the stove’s iron belly. He was dressed simply in a cotton spun shirt, trousers, suspenders, and leather boots. His shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbow, showing off the lean muscles of his forearms and the scars he had long since stopped trying to hide. Was this the archetypal heathen of the Empire? The image did not seem so offensive as Dynasty propaganda might suggest.

“And you?” Essek returned, pulling his focus back to the conversation.

Caleb leaned and cracked his back. “Pretty good! I am not getting any younger, and my body knows when it is sleeping in a new place, but ja.” He reached high on a shelf in the cupboard and took down a white ceramic pitcher. “There is a little milk here if you want some for tea.”

“I have never thought to put milk in tea before,” Essek said. “Is that traditional?”

“It is to one’s taste, I suppose,” Caleb said. “Some also put sugar. Here, let me make you a cup, and you can decide if you like it. Careful, it’s hot.”

Essek found he preferred tea without anything in it, but it wasn’t a hardship to drink what Caleb had prepared and watch him putter comfortably about the space. It was as though many old habits and muscle memories had awoken in his friend, telling him exactly where things might be kept and what to do with them. He brought eggs from the small coop outside, cut vegetables with a wooden-handled knife, and sliced several thick wedges of brown bread with butter for breakfast. It was simple fare, and strange to Essek’s Rosohnan palate, but satisfying.

“Do I have something on my face?” Caleb finally asked from across the table, noticing Essek observing him. “You are staring.”

“I just like to look at you,” Essek replied boldly, to see Caleb smile. It worked.

What also happened, however, was that Caleb decided to study Essek just as boldly. “You don’t have your earrings,” Caleb commented, surprised. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without them.”

Essek self-consciously thumbed at the empty piercings in his ears where several bits of jewelry usually sat, sleek and fashionable. “I didn’t want them to catch on the blankets,” he explained. That was partially true. He’d also felt a bit like a peacock in this quiet, mud-brick house, and had decided to try dressing down a little. His ears felt naked.

Caleb offered him the grace of not pushing further, though his gaze lingered.

They washed dishes outside in a basin of soapy water drawn from a nearby well with a bucket on a rope. Essek had offered to Prestidigitate everything clean, but Caleb seemed oddly intent on doing everything by hand. In fact, he hadn’t used magic since they arrived — he had even eschewed his talents for fire, choosing to light the stove and yellow wax candles with long-stemmed matches. Exchanging grace for grace, Essek did not question him on this.

—

“Essek!”

Caleb’s voice sounded from not too far away in the bushes.

With combat magic ready at his fingertips, Essek burst through the foliage, ready for anything.

“Here, look!” Caleb was on his knees, brandishing a small fruit. “There are wild strawberries here. Come, come, help me pick them.” What Essek had taken for urgency in his tone had only been excitement, and Essek willed his anxiety to dissipate.

“Yes, of course.” He folded himself neatly down on the mossy forest floor. “What should I do?”

“Well first, you must eat one,” Caleb insisted. He popped one into his own mouth and made a hum of pleasure. “I have not had these for a very long time. I can replicate them in the tower, of course, but picking them is what makes them perfect.”

Essek tried a strawberry and found it tender, tart, and sweet. Red juice stained his fingers like blood. He cupped his hands and Caleb piled berries into them one after the other until he held a small bounty. The knees of his trousers were wet from the morning dew, beads of water shining like mithril on the leaves.

“Let’s bring these back,” Caleb said, his own hands reddened too. “They will be good with cream, if I can get some from the farm down the road.”

—

Caleb did return with a little crock of cream, and a package of other goods he had been sent away with by their generous neighbors — bread, a sack of oats, apples, fresh butter, a single orange. The cats were begging at his feet as he whipped the cream into fluff, a vigorous process that took several long minutes of beating with a thin metal whisk.

“Ah, ah, nein, kleine katze,” Caleb scolded, grabbing a white-and-orange tabby cat that had jumped onto the table, stopping it before it could upset the bowl. “Here, here, as a little treat, just this once.” He set a saucer of leftover cream on the floor, and it was quickly surrounded by all three cats.

Essek watched Caleb enjoy these labors, and was again struck by how out of place he felt by comparison. Long, long ago, Caleb had claimed that the difference between them was thinner than a razor, and sometimes Essek flattered himself to believe it, but they truly had come from two opposing worlds.

The whisk clanged sharply on the edge of the bowl as Caleb stopped and stood stock-still. He cocked his head as though listening. Essek sat up, alarmed.

A moment passed, and then Caleb’s face changed from pensive to elated, and he spoke with a huge smile. “Wunderbar! Oh, that is such good news. I am so very happy for you both. For the three of you. We will visit soon.”

“What is it?” Essek asked.

Caleb clapped his hands together. “Big news, good news! Fjord and Jester have had a little girl! Jester says the babe came a little early, but everything is fine.”

Essek brightened. “All is well?”

“Ja, ja.” Caleb grabbed Essek’s hands and pulled him from his seat to joyfully spin him around, and Essek went, laughing. “We are uncles!”

The cats, who had been slumped and sprawled spread-eagle in front of the hearth in a milk-drunk stupor, all scattered with yowls of complaint.

When they stopped their spin, Caleb brought Essek in for a tight squeeze, and Essek leaned into it warmly — a reaction it had taken some time to learn, and now seemed impossible to resist.

“Should we go?” Essek inquired. “Did they need anything?”

Caleb shook his head. “Jester’s request was actually to wait a few days. They are all very tired. But ja, soon.”

Crash!

The ceramic pitcher of milk smashed into pieces on the floor, the third cat — tortoiseshell, mischievous — fleeing the clay shards but quickly returning to lap at the milk.

Caleb made a cry of dismay. “Ah, we will need to replace that for our hosts.”

“I can fix it, if you wish,” Essek offered, rescuing the trailing edge of the lace table runner from the mess.

“With Prestidigitation? Is it that versatile?”

“Jester taught me Mending,” Essek replied. Sometimes he thought it was futile for a man such as himself to know how to fix things, rather than break them, to help rather than hurt, but he treasured the time she had spent teaching him for its own sake.

Caleb deliberated. Essek thought he might be weighing his evident desire to avoid using magic against his sense of duty as a guest of this house. Duty won out, and he nodded. “Then please. Danke.”

Essek mended the pitcher and vanished the spilled milk.

“You are very needy,” Caleb scolded the cat, who did not look repentant in the slightest. “Tsch, no biting.”

There was a harsh braying noise from outside in the distance.

“What was that?” Essek craned his neck to look out the window.

“Oh, the neighbors down the road have a donkey,” Caleb waved his hand. When Essek looked at him blankly, he tried again. “An ass?”

Essek blinked. “Excuse me?”

Caleb’s lips twitched with amusement. “An animal like a horse, but small and stubborn and very loud, like that.”

“Ah.”

Essek enjoyed strawberries and whipped cream more than he had the tea with milk, and scraped the bottom of the bowl with his spoon to collect every last bite.

—

A shower of rain that evening notified them that there were holes in the roof. This didn’t seem to bother Caleb overly much, and he put a bucket there to catch the worst drips.

“We can fix it in the morning,” Caleb said, after a peek outside confirmed how wet it was.

He sat next to Essek on the bed and undid the knot of his bootlaces. They had been sharing the space well, comfortable in their proximity, but it always felt very intimate to undertake the simple acts of preparing for rest together. Their humble surroundings made this feeling even more stark, somehow. Magnified.

Once they settled under the heavy quilt, the only light was from the fire’s embers, and the only sounds were the rain on the roof and the occasional plink of a drop in the bucket.

“Caleb,” Essek murmured into the hush of night.

“Mm?”

“I’m glad we came here.”

Caleb, dark-blind, fumbled until he found Essek’s hand, then drew it to his lips and brushed a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m glad you are here with me.”

And Essek did not sleep this time, but tranced instead, listening to the quiet sounds of the cottage and of Caleb’s even breathing for a long time.

[ailendolin]

Fluff Friday - 5 - Yonderland

Title: Friends [AO3]

Characters: Ho-Tan/Vex, Debbie, Edith, Lynn, Sue, Mary, Jenny, Palla the Parvuli

Prompt: Ho-Tan and Debbie having a Girls' Night In - Prompt by the lovely @iris-in-the-rain

A/N: This is a very loose sequel to my story Amends in which Ho-Tan and Debbie spend a day together and Debbie apologises for reversing Ho-Tan's Pipple Fruit wish. You will be able to understand this fic without reading it first but it gets briefly referenced in the beginning.

Prompts are open, so if you want me to write a story for you as well just send me an ask with the fandom, characters and your prompt. I’m writing for Ghosts, Yonderland, Horrible Histories and Bill at the moment.

Six Idiots Whump Wednesday / Fluff Friday masterlist is here.

————

Friends

When Debbie proposed a Girls’ Night In, Ho-Tan hadn’t been quite sure what that meant. She’d had a Girls’ Day with Debbie once and while that had turned out to be an absolutely marvellous experience, she had no idea what a Night In entailed, especially considering it wouldn’t be just her and Debbie this time since Debbie had invited some of the friends she’d made on her adventures as well. Palla the Parvuli would be joining them this evening, as well as Mary and Jenny – a lovely couple who owned a trinket shop Ho-Tan liked to spend more money in than she really should – and Edith, Lynn and Sue who had promised to bake something for the occasion.

Ho-Tan had to admit she was a little nervous. She barely knew these women, and she had no idea what one was supposed to wear for a Girls’ Night In. Would her usual robes suffice? Or was she supposed to wear a pretty dress? Not that she actually owned one. Oh gods, what if there was a dress code, quite literally? The shops were closed by now and she’d never be able to sew a dress on such short notice and–

Someone gently took her hands and gave them a squeeze.

“I can hear you thinking, my dear,” Vex said softly and Ho-Tan felt her racing heart calm down a little. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know what to wear,” Ho-Tan whispered and let her head hang.

With a smile, Vex gave her hands another squeeze and let go of them to take a look at her wardrobe. After a moment, he pulled out a hanger. “How about this? It’s nice and cosy and the colour always makes your eyes shine.”

He was holding up the softest pair of beige breeches Ho-Tan owned and the dark blue shirt she secretly loved but rarely wore. “Are you sure? It’s not very … girly.”

Something changed in Vex’s face then. It was subtle and yet Ho-Tan felt a tug at her heart when he hung up the hanger on the door and reached for her hands again. “Women wear trousers all the time.”

He had a point there, Ho-Tan had to admit. Debbie and Mary certainly seemed to prefer trousers to skirts and dresses. Still … “There might be a dress code, though.”

“If I remember correctly Deb-beh said you could wear whatever you felt most comfortable in.” Vex inclined his head. “Would a dress make you feel more comfortable?”

Ho-Tan shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I’ve never worn one.”

“Would you like to?” Vex asked softly.

Ho-Tan swallowed and looked down at her shoes. “Maybe? Just once, to try it.”

“Then we’ll get you a dress,” Vex promised without hesitation. “Tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Ho-Tan felt herself melt a little at the love shining from his eyes. She leaned up to press a short, sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth before she reached for the breeches and shirt he had picked out for her, feeling lighter than she had all day.

“Thank you,” she said. And then, a little more quietly, “I mean it, Vex. Thank you.”

Vex smiled and shooed her off to the bathroom.

————

Half an hour later, Ho-Tan nervously fiddled with the hem of her shirtsleeve as she waited for the others to arrive. It was almost time. Only a few more minutes and the clock would strike–

A knock on the door made her heart jumped. Standing up from her sofa, Ho-Tan took a deep breath and smoothed down her shirt before she went to open the door. To her surprise, no one was there. She frowned and was about to chalk it up to nerves when a high-pitched voice said, “Down here.”

“Oh!” Ho-Tan said and looked down at the Parvuli. “I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there. Come on in!”

She opened the door a little wider to let her first guest in.

“Thank you,” Palla said with a smile in her voice just as someone shouted behind them, “Hold the door for us!”

They turned around and saw Jenny and Mary hurrying up the street, hand in hand and with matching smiles on their faces. It didn’t escape Ho-Tan’s notice that they were both wearing trousers, and she felt a little tension drain from her shoulders.

“Hi, Ho-Tan!” Mary said happily and, much to Ho-Tan’s surprise, pulled her into a hug. “You look lovely tonight!”

Ho-Tan ducked her head shyly. “Vex said I should wear it.”

“He has excellent taste,” Jenny said before drawing her into a hug as well. “Are we late?”

“No. It’s just me so far,” Palla piped up from the ground.

“Oh, hi there!” Mary beamed. “Would you like me to pick you up?”

Palla smiled and nodded.

Ho-Tan showed them the way to the common room – decorated with more pillows and blankets than Ho-Tan thought the Elders actually owned and beautifully lit with scented candles that made the room smell like a wildflower field in the height of summer. Then there was another knock that had her hurrying back to the door.

“Oh, what a delicious smell!” she exclaimed before she could stop herself. Edith, Lynn and Sue stood before her, wearing pretty pink dresses that made Ho-Tan’s heart ache just a little and holding three trays of cakes and muffins that not only smelled heavenly but also looked the part as well.

“Let’s hope they taste just as good,” Lynn grinned at her. She leaned a little closer and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Between you and me, Sue’s creation is a lot more experimental than it looks.”

Sue glared at her. “I may be getting older but my hearing’s just as good as ever, Lynn.”

Lynn rolled her eyes but didn’t stop grinning. Ho-Tan didn’t know them well but it was obvious that this teasing banter was a regular occurrence between them, especially when Edith added, “Ladies, please. We are guests here.” She turned to Ho-Tan with a smile. “Good evening, Elder Ho-Tan. Thank you so much for hosting tonight.”

“Thank you for coming,” Ho-Tan smiled and let them in. “Just head straight down the hallway and take the last door to the left. Jenny, Mary and Palla are already there. I’ll just wait for – Debbie!”

In the middle of the street, Debbie was stepping out of the portal with a big smile on her face and wearing the most comfortable-looking sweater Ho-Tan had ever seen.

“Hi, Ho-Tan!” she said before she waved at Nick and Elf. “Thanks, guys. See you later!”

“Not too late,” Nick grumbled. “I need my beauty sleep, you know?”

“I think all hope’s lost there, mate,” Elf said.

Their bickering faded into the distance as Ho-Tan was pulled into her third hug that evening.

“I’ve brought snacks,” Debbie declared once she’d pulled back and held up two bags that were filled with different types of crisps as far as Ho-Tan could determine.

“And we brought cakes,” Lynn said brightly, gently shaking the box in her hand as proof.

“Well, what are we waiting for, then? Let’s get this party started!” Debbie grinned and swung her free arm around Ho-Tan to pull her down the hallway.

Ho-Tan let everyone’s excited laughter wash over her and ease her nervousness. Perhaps this time, she thought, she wouldn’t be the odd one out. The thought made her smile.

————

“Hey.” Ho-Tan glanced up to find Edith sitting down next to her. “Is everything all right? You seem a little quiet.”

Ho-Tan smiled at her. “Oh yes, everything’s fine. I’m just not used to … all of this.”

Almost in unison, they both looked over at the others who were currently competing for the first place in a game called Twister Debbie had had hidden at the bottom of one of her snack bags. Ho-Tan wasn’t quite sure about the rules – Palla seemed to be rotating a needle on some sort of board and every now and then announced something like, “Right foot on green!” that left the others scrambling to find one of the green circles on the mat with their right foot. It looked like fun, Ho-Tan supposed, but it was also loud and chaotic and right now, she just needed a moment of peace and quiet to process everything that had happened so far – from eating the most delicious cake she’d ever tasted and snacks she’d never even heard of before to laughing at the silliest things and most embarrassing stories.

She’d never felt so comfortable in a group before, if one didn’t count the Elders. There was just something about the way Mary and Jenny smiled at each other before they explained one of their inside jokes, or the way Edith, Lynn and Sue bickered with a fondness that reminded Ho-Tan of Vex and Choop. And little Palla told the most amazing stories – Ho-Tan really needed to ask her if she would allow her to record them, if only so she could use them as bedtime stories for the Youngers in the future.

This must be what it feels like to have friends, she thought to herself. As a child, her life had been so busy between school, housework and taking care of her younger siblings that she simply didn’t have the time for sleepovers and play dates – all things she knew her schoolmates regularly enjoyed in their free time. It made it hard to maintain friendships, and it hadn’t helped that she’d always been a little … different. Until today she’d never truly realised how much she had missed out on back then, and while she knew it was decades too late for little Alfie now, Scribe Elder Ho-Tan was glad beyond words she got to experience it at all.

“I know how you feel,” Edith said, pulling Ho-Tan out of her thoughts. “Before I met Lynn and Sue, I never felt comfortable in large groups, especially when I didn’t know anyone. It was all a bit overwhelming – the noise, the people, all the expectations that come with social gatherings.”

Encouraged by Edith’s understanding smile, Ho-Tan admitted, “I couldn’t stop worrying about what I should wear. Now it seems rather silly.”

Edith shook her head. “No, it’s not. I kept redoing my hair at least four times before Sue dragged me away from the mirror.”

Ho-Tan felt her heart warm. “Really? I think it looks very pretty.”

“So does yours,” Edith smiled.

A little self-consciously, Ho-Tan twirled a strand of hair around her finger. And then, before she could lose her courage and change her mind, she said, “I really like your dress.”

Surprised, Edith looked down at herself. “Oh, this old thing? I’ve had it for ages. It was a birthday present from Lynn and Sue.”

She smiled to herself fondly and with a far away look in her eyes that told Ho-Tan she was lost in the memories of that special day. Ho-Tan knew what that felt like and reached up to touch the butterfly hairclip behind her ear.

“I could make you a dress like this if you’d like,” Edith offered.

For a moment, Ho-Tan could only gape at her like one of those fish from the river Goingdownhill. She must have looked so shocked that Edith thought she’d offended her somehow for she quickly backtracked and said, “I mean, only if you want me to. I’m sure you could make one yourself just fine.”

“No,” Ho-Tan hurried to say. “No, it’s not – it’s not that. I was just surprised. I … I’ve never worn a dress in my life – any sort of dress, and I really wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble for nothing.”

Edith’s eyes softened. “How do you know it will be for nothing if you haven’t tried it?”

Ho-Tan shrugged and nervously started to fiddle with her shirtsleeve again.

“How about this,” Edith said, gently taking her hand in hers. “You come over for a visit whenever you like and try on some of my dresses. We should be about the same size, I think. That way you can see if you’re comfortable wearing one and which style you like the most.”

She was smiling so openly at her that Ho-Tan found herself nodding along even before Edith had finished. “I’d love that.”

“Wonderful!” Edith exclaimed just as they heard a loud thump from the other side of the room. They both looked over to see Sue lying flat on the mat with Jenny, Debbie, Lynn and Mary all piled on top of her.

“Mary wins!” Palla declared as loudly as she could over Sue’s unhappy grumbling.

Ho-Tan and Edith looked at each and burst into laughter.

————

“You waited up for me,” Ho-Tan said softly after she had bid everyone goodnight and locked the door.

Vex smiled at her and took her hand in his to lead her down the hallway to her bedroom. “Of course. How was your Girls’ Night In, my dear?”

“Simply marvellous,” Ho-Tan beamed. “We ate so many things and played games and talked and, oh Vex, I had so much fun!”

“I can see that,” Vex said. “You’re almost glowing as brightly as the Glow-Worm People from Radiation Springs!”

Ho-Tan huffed out a laugh. “I’m not. That would be weird.”

Vex pretended to ponder that before he made a vague noise that Ho-Tan knew was the equivalent of a shrug and leaned down to peck her cheek. “I’d love you anyway.”

Warmth spread through her whole body. Ho-Tan didn’t think she would ever grow tired of hearing him say those words. “How about you go ahead and get ready for bed? I’ll just quickly tidy things up.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Vex said and before Ho-Tan had a chance to react, he put one arm around her back, the other behind her knees and literally swept her off her feet.

“What are you doing?” Ho-Tan laughed. “Put me down!”

Vex grinned down at her and shook his head. “No. We can worry about cleaning up tomorrow. Right now, I want to cuddle with you and hear all about your night.”

So Ho-Tan allowed herself to be carried back to her room. She felt young and newly in love again, and the butterflies in her stomach went crazy when they got ready for bed side by side and tried to make each other laugh with toothpaste smiles and foamy faces just like they used to do when they were children.

They were lying side by side in bed, the blankets pulled up to their chins, when she finally told Vex about Edith’s offer to make her a dress.

“That was very kind of her,” Vex said and searched for her hand under the blankets so he could intertwine their fingers.

“It was,” Ho-Tan agreed. “I didn’t ask her but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you coming with me.”

Vex laughed, a low rumble that reverberated in her ear, and shook his head. “I think you’ll have all the help you need without me there trying to pretend I know anything about dresses. Or fashion in general.” He tightened his hold on her hand, prompting her to look up at him. “That is, unless you want me to come with you. Then I’ll accompany you, of course.”

A few hours ago, Ho-Tan wouldn’t have needed to think about her answer. The mere thought of going into a shop and looking for a dress on her own would have made her feel nauseous – it still did, if she was being honest. But now she wouldn’t have to go to a shop – she’d just be going to Edith, Lynn and Sue’s. She’d be among friends, not strangers, and that made all the difference.

“You know what? I think I’ll be fine on my own,” Ho-Tan said. Then, with a teasing smile, she added, “That way I can surprise you with my dress later on.”

“As long as it makes you happy, I know I will love it,” Vex said softly. “Just like I love you.”

Ho-Tan smiled up at him and leaned a little closer. “I love you too.”

He met her half-way in a kiss.

[thetaoofzoe]

Fic: A Wild Woman 1/1

Title: A Wild Woman

Summary: By Victorian Standards, you are considered the dreaded Wild Woman! Your aunt and uncle threaten to disown you and turn you out into the streets unless you agree to a little re-education on how to be a proper lady.

Rating: Mature, fluff, Soft Dom Sherlock!Henry, sex, unconventional

Pairing: Sherlock x YOU

Note: This was inspired by  "A wild woman brought up a wild child. We'll make her acceptable for society." from the EH trailer.

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

Your Aunt and Uncle had had enough of you. They were fed up with your lack of female decorum and your absolute insistence to star gaze, associate with male aeronauts and start fires from chemistry experiments gone awry. But you couldn't help yourself. After the scandal of the woman who attempted to join the Chemistry Society a few years back, you had been forever changed. Women could do anything and you were intent on grabbing that elusive gold ring. If that meant attending boisterous underground resistance meetings, or not wearing your corset, then so be it.

Unfortunately, your family did not see it that way. To them, you were a wild woman who had no place in decent Victorian society.

One gloomy autumn evening, when your uncle returned from the gentleman's club, he sat both you and your aunt down at the dining room table for a talk.

Your uncle then gave you a choice.

Well, it was a choice between scylla and charybdis, but a choice nonetheless.

You were either to be turned out into the street to fend for yourself, with no money and no prospects and definitely no husband, or you were to travel to London to be kept, re-educated and made acceptable to be returned to society by a pair of reputable brothers who promised to produce reputable ladies.

What could you do, but agree to the latter, as the former was a nightmare you never wanted to experience.

So you made the long involuntary train-trek cross country to London.

The man who met you at the train station was tall, and slim with a well-manicured moustache that curled up at the ends in the most fashionable way. When he reached for your single suitcase and turned to walk away, you followed without protest.

**

Baker Street was a short narrow avenue that seemed unnecessarily busy for so early in the morning, and when the Hansom slowed, your companion opened the door and hopped out. He offered his gloved hand, which you took and followed him to the ground.

The cab rode off and gently taking you by the arm, the man guided you across the road. He walked up the steps to a dark painted door with the numbers 221b etched on a half-moon of glass above it.  He led you inside and up the stairs to a room at the end of a long corridor.

It was a well-appointed room. Against the wall was a large bed with a patchwork cover flanked by two low dark wood tables upon which sat twin lamps with beaded green lampshades. To the left, a tall window brought in the hazy morning light and illuminating the small writing desk beneath it.  There was also a large wardrobe stood in one corner opposite a bookshelf which was crammed with books.

'Your room, for the duration of your stay. I expect that it will be maintained without clutter.'

He then looked at you and slowly perused your form. You felt scandalised! No man had ever dared make his inspection of your body so plain before. Scandalised, yes, but a slow simmer of heat in your belly belied your inner outrage.

He humphed, and his  eyes moved to meet yours again.

'Sloppy,' he said. 'That you expect to be taken seriously, dressed like this is insulting.'

You opened your mouth and he lifted his brows, waiting for you to speak.

'I expect, sir, for you to watch your tongue when addressing me.'

He laughed quietly.

'My brother will be home shortly,' he said ignoring your protest. 'I believe you will be spending the evening in his company. Granted, he is less strict than I am, so don't get used to his...'

The man pinwheeled his hand in the air as if searching for the most appropriate word, but the opening and then the closing of the front door distracted him.

'Ah,' he murmured. 'He's come home early. Please wash thoroughly and change your clothes. I expect that you have something better than this?'

You narrowed your eyes.

'I will give you one hour and then come downstairs and into the study for inspection. The study is to the right at the bottom of the stairs. Have you... questions?'

'Do you intend to stand here and watch me wash and dress?'

He smiled and wordlessly turned to leave you to your task.

'We'll break you of that attitude,' he promised and closed the door behind him.

You wavered on your feet and collapsed on the fainting couch at the foot of the bed. You were breathless, excited, astounded that you were aroused by the man's quiet dominance.

'This is ridiculous girl!' you chided yourself aloud. 'This whole thing is ridiculous.'

But at least you were in London. You had promised your aunt and uncle that you would be 're-educated' and that you were going to come home the niece they always wanted so that you could be married off to the local farmer's son. What they didn't know, was that you were going to use the little stipend they'd provided and run away into the arms of the big city.

In the meantime, this was what you needed to do to get to where you needed to go.

You got up, stripped out of your travel clothes and inspected the pitcher and basin on the wash stand in the corner. There was water in the pitcher and a clean cloth hanging on the railing. There was also a lump of lanolin soap sitting on the side of the basin and you went about washing the dirt from your travels off of your skin. You didn't bother with a corset, or your stockings. You merely shrugged into your chemise, dress and shoes and went down to the study.

You stood at the closed door, humming with excitement and terror. What if this brother was a hunchback, with a mutilated face and was only gentle because his looks terrified everyone. What if he was old and decrepit and smelled of liniment! You wrinkled your nose at the thought and opened the door.

The study was beautiful, quiet and a fire burned in the small hearth. The walls were covered with dark tapestries and old maps. Books and newspapers were stacked everywhere, but it did not appear to be done in a chaotic manner. There was an order to this room and your heart clenched when your eyes fell on the man who was rising from the high wing-backed chair.

If Gods walked the earth, on a regular basis, you would not have been surprised by his appearance. He too was tall, like his brother, broad across the chest with a narrow waist and sturdy thighs.  He was in his shirtsleeves with a high starched white collar and dark brown tweed waistcoat and matching dress trousers.

And the curls. Oh the soft mass of chocolatey brown curls were stylish and clipped short and nicely complimented his handsome chiselled face.

'Turn around, please,' he said, his voice all honey and milk and you obeyed immediately.

'Face me again.'

You did so and he approached, hands clasped behind his back. He shook his head.

'You know this is unacceptable, don't you.'

It wasn't a question.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, you thought. You had practised on the long train ride to London. You knew exactly how you were going to respond and exactly what you were going to say. But your mind had gone blank and only silence came out of your sweet quivering mouth.

You lowered your gaze.

His dark shoes were buttoned neatly and had been shined carefully. He was obviously a man who cared about his appearance.

'I expect things from you, when you're under my roof. This shabbiness and unruly nature will not be permitted and if you continue to pursue these avenues, you will be...'

He trailed off, and began to walk in a slow circle around you, prowling, like a sleek beast and you couldn't help feeling helpless.

Like you were prey.

He stopped after one revolution and stood at your back. He was so close that the heat and scent of him engulfed you. You closed your eyes, and sweat broke out across your upper lip and brow.

He 'humphed', sounding just like his brother and stuck a finger against your side. You didn't dare squirm away from his examination and you held yourself taut.

'No corset,' he said, finding you soft and unrestrained beneath your clothes. 'And I wager, no stockings or combinations.'

You were silent and it seemed that the very silence was a living creature, pricking your skin.

'Answer me.'

'No, none of that.'

He took in a long breath and let it out slowly.

'Upstairs, now. Gather your undergarments and bring them here.'

You turned so fast that you nearly banged into him. But you managed to scurry round him, and dart up the stairs as fast as your legs beneath your full skirts would carry you. You blindly grabbed everything that you had and nearly tumbled back down the stairs in your haste to please this man, this stranger, who within moments of meeting him made you want to drop to your knees and worship his masculinity.

He was still standing in the same place where you left him, back straight, head up, elegant hands clasped behind his back.

Out of breath, you stood before him, arms full of undergarments and he smiled. That smile took your breath away. He directed you to dump your clothes on the nearby desk.

'Now,' he began, scholarly. 'The makings of a society appropriate lady, begins at her skin. Do you understand?'

You swallowed hard and nodded.

'Good. Now, remove your clothing. We have to start from the skin.'

There was heat in his voice, filled with a demand that brooked no argument, and with trembling hands, you unbuttoned your waistcoat, unpinned your skirt and shrugged out of your rough collared shirt until you stood there bare beneath your chemise.

You worked your hands together in front of you feeling damp between your legs and ready to show him everything that was private about you.You unlaced the chemise at the collar and let it fall.

He looked at you for a long time, appreciating you, drinking you in and he was very obviously pleased with you.

He pointed to the combinations lying in a heap on the desk.

'Combinations.'

Your combinations were in two pieces so you stepped into the split bottoms and pulled on the top.

'Now corset.'

You went back to the table. You had two corsets, and you looked to him for his opinion.

'Blue,' he said. 'It laces in the back.'

Normally, as you dressed yourself, your corsets (when you wore them) laced in the front. But this one, he chose purposefully. He wanted to have control over dressing you.

The blue one was already partially laced so all you had to do was pull it over your head and hold it in place. You turned your back to him and waited. He began to slowly tighten your laces, starting from the top and working his way down, one after the other after the other he pulled the narrow fabric through the eyelets closing the boned corset around you, trussing you like a tart and stealing your breath.

The corset was tight, but not overly so, just enough to make you realise that you liked it. He tied the remainder of the cord round your waist and tucked in the excess.

'Will you take it off me when it's time?' you breathed, lightheaded with arousal.

And he hummed a soft response.

Then followed your simple cream and blue coloured dress, which you stepped into with his help. It buttoned up the back and he took his time doing so.

After what seemed an eternity, he stepped away from you and mourning the loss of his heat, you watched him walk to the chair, turn and sit down.

'Come here, and bring your stockings and ribbon.'

Like a puppy, you followed and stood at his knee.

He took the stockings and thin blue ribbons and laid them across his lap.

'Right foot,' he murmured and patted the spot on his thigh where he wanted you to put it. 'Balance yourself on the chair if needed.'

You put a hand on the top of the wing back and sighed softly when he rolled up the first stocking and slid it on your foot and up your leg. You bit your lip, but you couldn't look away from the deft fingers that trailed fire along your skin. He tied the ribbon just below your knee and folded the top of the stocking over it.

'Left.'

You switched legs and he repeated the process, only this time after he had tied the ribbon and folded the stocking down, he held your calf with both hands and looked up at you.

'Now you are finished. Is there anything that I did that you did not understand?'

You shook your head, not trusting your voice to come out as anything but a squeak. He nodded to acknowledge your answer, paused, and then slid one hand up your calf, to your thigh and over the material of your combinations to where they split to reveal your tender sex. He lightly brushed his fingertips over your naked mound and you made a noise that was quite unbecoming of a society lady. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you did the only thing you ever wanted to do the moment you laid eyes on him; you widened your legs.

'I prefer an unruly woman,' he said, sliding one finger into your slick wet cunt. 'I think they have spirit.'

Whining, you grabbed onto the other side of the chair and leaned on it for support. He stroked your clit slowly, carefully, pushing back the swollen little hood and pinched it between his fingers. You squeezed your eyes shut and stars burst against the darkness. You were going to scream if he continued.

'Please,' you whispered, jerking your hips forward, encouraging his further exploration. 'Please... just please!'

He slid his fingers out of you and with his eyes still on your, he put those same fingers into his mouth.

A cry of frustration escaped you. You hiked your skirts and climbed onto his lap, giving him just enough room to unbutton the opening of his trousers and draw out his leaking cock. You took him in hand and he grabbed your hips and pressed back into the chair as you positioned yourself enough to sink slowly down onto him.

You leaned back into his hands, tipping your chin up and moaning loudly, voluptuously, clenching tightly around him, circling your hips to feel all of him filling you completely. He groaned quietly, much more subdued, but no less aroused and he looked up just as you looked down at him. You grabbed his exquisite face between your hands and kissed him, lapping eagerly into his delectable mouth, letting your body rise and fall as your cunt greedily devoured him.

You pushed your fingers into his soft curls, and held his head up, kissing and biting at his plush lips, riding him slowly at first, and then faster as the crescendo of desire and lust and pleasure crested then exploded inside you. Every part of you clamped down hard on him and you rocked and back and forth, milking the shuddering orgasm out of him.

It took a moment before the two of you finally relaxed from your shared high. Still holding his face, you kissed his cheeks and his forehead and his lips over and over until his softening cock slipped out of you. You sat back on his thighs and imagined his cum leaking out of you and onto your combinations.  You giggled at the dirty thought.

'I'm Sherlock,' he said after a long silence, looking up to meet your gaze.

'I'm... smitten,' you answered.

Maybe a little re-education wasn't such a bad thing.

-End

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