#victorian lesbians

[weemsfreak]

Desire ♱

⋆Jane's pov (recommend read second)⋆

Jane Murdstone x Fem!reader

♱ Main story in readers pov here

Summary: Jane returns to her village after many years and commissions a new dress. A dressmakers apprentice catches her eye, and then Jane catches hers again and again. ~4k words

Warnings: obsession, stocking, mention of child abuse, family trauma and father issues (as in Jane/Edward Murdstone 'David Copperfield')

⋆♱✮♱⋆

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Stepping into the dressmakers, a nostalgic feeling washed over. The last time Jane had a dress fabricated by Gladys was nearly ten years ago.

"Well, I'll be. It has been a long while, Miss Murdstone."

Averting her eyes to Gladys, she was nothing but glad to see her still in business.

"Indeed, it has."

Moving further into the room, she threw her coat to the settee, placing herself so that Gladys could get to work. Jane had much to do today.

"How has Blunderstone treated you? Glad to be back at the factory?"

Jane cared not to talk about the past few years, nor the annoyingly disappointing end. She sighed, "It was a good many years, although a dreadful end I'm afraid. I am delighted to be back."

Jane stood with arms out as she felt Gladys' hands roam over her. She attempted to make small talk, she truly did, but as she stared at the wall her head was filled with thoughts of shopping and planning and…

"Y/N!"

Jane almost jumped, pulled from her thoughts, and shutting her eyes as she took a breath.

"Yes, how can I help-"

Silence. Jane wondered what had happened.

Her head snapped to the left to find you, wide doe eyes already on hers, before they averted to Gladys.

Her eyebrows furrowed, why were you staring? If she repulsed you that much, you need not look.

"Y/n, this is Miss Murdstone."

You slowly moved to her, gaze on the floor. You looked so small, so innocent as you bowed. Jane thought it was endearing.

"How do you do Miss Murdstone."

Jane cleared her throat quietly and deepened her voice, "Well, thank you."

She took to observing the wall as you lifted her skirts, then measured her bodice, shoulders, and arms.

You were gentle as you worked, and Jane couldn't decide whether she liked that about you, or resented it.

Still, she did not want to obscure any measurements, so she stiffened her body; not that she carried herself any other way. Your hands on her made it easier, really, for she did not wish to give in to your touch; nor anyone else's.

She heard Gladys let out a quiet chuckle and followed her gaze to your hands, which trembled slightly as you worked.

Pride and schadenfreude swelled in her chest at the thought of you being intimidated by her. Then, her mind went the other way, and she forced away a blush at the thrilling thought of you fancying her instead of resenting her.

Jane attempted to concentrate on her planning until warm fingers brushed against her pale neck and she flinched at the contact, not so used to the touch of others.

She watched you back away with a small gasp; it seemed your attention was focused elsewhere. Apologies flew from your lips, but Jane said nothing in return, for she was not angry.

Jane snuck glances through the doorway as you sat perfectly within her line of view. You began to draw on black fabric as you sat there so obediently.

She had half a mind to mess with you, in one way or another, but she did not wish to distract you, for it was of upmost importance that her dress fit perfectly.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane saw you many times after that day on her trips into the village. It seemed that you were as busy as she, and she wondered who you were and where you came from.

You blended well into the crowd, yet your pretty face stood out - delicate and captivating. You appeared so kind and caring, so sweet and naive.

When she caught you staring her way, she was unsure if her eyes were deceiving her.

It was not the frightened or indifferent look she usually received - she thought it might be intrigue, or perhaps something darker, which disturbed her slightly.

She wondered if your outward appearance matched your hidden interior, and briefly wondered if you would bend for her.

Of course, you would.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane ventured to the gardens and admired the nettles. Plain little things, not much to the eye, when she felt a presence behind her.

She ignored it, as she usually did, until she turned and caught sight of you out of the corner of her eye.

You sat on a bench next to some Calla Lilies, she thought that they reflected your being. They were soft like you, still and gentle like you.

Perhaps she admired the flowers very much, or perhaps she was unsettled; but for some reason she felt the sudden urge to spill her thoughts to you.

Thoughts about the lilies, thoughts about herself, thoughts about anything and everything, thoughts about you; but she knew she would talk endlessly, unlike her usual self.

Jane wished to move closer to you, to see up close the joy and sincerity written on your face as you basked in the serene surroundings.

You were warm like the sun, she envied that; and at the same time, she wished to take advantage of it.

As much as she desired to get to know you, she knew, and for once feared, the fact that she would come off as cruel, cold, perhaps menacing. She decided against it.

She did not wish to darken your day, but it was who she was; she knew nothing more.

And so, she walked past with her head held high and avoided you entirely, coming off as cold in an attempt not to burden you.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane has suffered throughout her life. She often wondered when it would cease.

From one thing to another, this and that, she turned to writing, she turned to the church. But over time, the things that she had found comfort in had betrayed her, just as everyone else had.

'Suffering as I have, a stronger soul emerged; the most massive characters are seared with scars.

As I am.'

She found comfort in the darkness of her deepest self, in the darkness of her room, in the darkness of her thoughts. For it was all that she knew, forever and ever.

Except, well, there was you, a new and profound thing in her life.

At first, she thought you had something against her. She knew your presence was not a mere coincidence, and felt that you would soon bring her closure, peace, and maybe even death.

Alas, after becoming comfortable with your consistent presence, feelings of joy and thrill overtook her when she saw you from afar, more so up close, bright eyes nothing but deep and swirling with intrigue; perhaps craving, perhaps desire.

Jane had not felt desire since she was married.

Her father had given her away to a man who worked in real estate and land development. She was young at the time, not naïve, but perhaps unknowing. Unknowing of a world that was outside of her upbringing.

But, not to her surprise, the marriage changed nothing.

Her husband was cruel, abusive, a tyrannical aristocrat. It was not anything she wasn't used to, but it was also not a life that she wanted to live.

For years she stayed silent, forgetting who she once was, until one day she confronted the suffering she had been through.

If not for nothing, then for this.

No, she never dreamed of men or marriage, she never hoped for children. Money was not a priority, the desire to fulfill her parents' wish absent.

She clung to the thought of independence, craved freedom, desired a life of adventure and knowledge. She resented any and all thoughts of her husband.

And so, when she got older, she took herself back, she took revenge.

'Embrace anger, hurl it into the void.

Transform it into something tangible, wield it until it unsettles you deep to the core. May your existence be meaningful, bold, and heard, for silence and isolation will never undo what they have done.

Retaliate until their power dwindles, crave change.

Shout into the abyss, thirst for revenge.

If the will is not present to fight for yourself, then fight for the person you once were.'

She summoned the strength deep inside, for if she was not true to herself, nobody would be.

Cyanide, easily accessible and almost untraceable.

Ever since, she has not been married, the excuse of being traumatized from her husband's death, the lie that she loved him enough to avoid it.

No, Jane has not felt desire since she was married; the desire to want revenge.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane routinely accompanied her brother out. This day it was a venture to the gallery, and she was filled with nothing but the usual feeling of being used.

Dreadful and unworthy the day was, just like her.

But, to her surprise and delight, her day took a significant turn. There you were, hand gently grazing over an artifact under a glass case.

Jane made the easy yet impulsive decision to abandon her brother and venture your way, finding herself increasingly drawn to you with each passing moment. She stood across, copying your movement as she pressed her fingers into a piece.

It felt surreal, being so close to comfort in a situation that would usually make her uneasy.

Perhaps it was new to her, the feeling she got when she felt the atoms that made up the world, maybe a world in which she had yet to know.

Pausing, she reluctantly raised her gaze to you, watching as you met it. She didn't wish to give too much of herself away, staring into orbs that held question, she kept her answers hidden behind a mask of indifference.

As she watched you scan her exterior, she couldn't help but feel selfish, she couldn't help but feel longing.

The longing of comfort, the light of another world, of warmth to balance out her chill, the longing of happiness.

For she wished you could show her how it was done.

'I'm so selfish, you're so kind.

I see the darkness, where you see the light.'

Yet, she dared not speak. This feeling was unfamiliar to her, leaving her at a rare loss for words to describe what she wished to convey.

She saw you and you saw her, but nobody spoke a word.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Once again, Jane accompanied Mr. Murdstone to the factory, following as he inspected the workers. She watched as young children bottled and corked the wine, making her way past the shelves of bottles and barrels.

Her eyebrows furrowed when an eerie feeling came over her, a feeling of being watched, of being coveted.

"Jump, boy" Edward instructed.

The boy tried, pathetically.

Jane snickered on the inside, "You should sooner teach the furniture."

"Jane" Edward warned. She fought off the urge to roll her eyes.

The boy attempted to jump, and she watched her brother become increasingly frustrated with the situation.

"You will not be switched to another job, boy."

The child jumped higher, but still failed to reach.

Jane raised her brow in amusement, "We should switch to a less enjoyable activity."

"JANE."

She saw it coming, Edward's hand travelled to the child's shirt as he drug him to the next room. Jane followed, standing guard as she allowed her brother to reprimand the child.

Eyes were on her, but she glowered the factory workers down until they looked away.

Over the noise she heard a close thud and turned her gaze to the shelves. They would soon snap under the weight, she thought, raking her eyes over the bottles and barrels.

Her heart jumped slightly as she watched a boy near, a tall boy, yet shorter than she. She smirked as he got closer, knowing the event that occurred over and over again.

That was, until she noticed the glass bottle in his hand.

She breathed deeply, attempting to keep her stone façade, a smirk that faltered but eyes that were emotionless, showing plain as day that she was not scared, not frightened of a boy with a glass bottle.

Or perhaps, she just wished that she wasn't.

She wished that her inside reflected her outside, wished that her heart was as cold as her shell.

For she wished he could break it with that bottle, shatter what she had learned over the years, what she had made, what she had turned into, and allow the real her to be shown.

He raised the bottle and a moment of hurt ran through her. A moment where she pictured the bottle making contact, a moment that, as a child, she had no wit nor strength to oppose her father's wrath.

Still, she stood her ground, eyes unblinking.

He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, and she knew.

When the boy turned away, Jane smirked once more, focusing on the lashing sounds behind her.

It was cruel, she knew, she was cold, she knew, but beaten and bruised was nothing new, it wasn't unfamiliar or forced, for she had no choice; it was home.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane grew weary as she observed Edward in his suit, appearing as he was going to a flood in the trousers; she almost laughed.

As it was, she had to deal with the situation.

When she entered the shop, she was so focused on her task that she failed to notice you. That was, until she had passed off the suit and took a moment to breathe.

She had remorsefully given up multiple opportunities to converse with you, to be close to you, to sit with you again, although she very much wished to.

She had engagements to attend and preparations to make for the ball, yet she disregarded them. She was unwilling to forgo the chance to be with you, sitting all alone on the settee.

Her boots were loud against the floor as she walked toward you and sat. Once more, a rare occurrence for her, she found herself at a loss for words; so she took to her usual belittling of man.

As a clue, as a question, as a way to convey her feelings.

"Men, incompetent."

There was silence, and for the first time in a long time, she almost regretted speaking.

You snickered. "Indeed."

Jane had absolutely no time to spare, yet she sat and took in your calming nature.

Her heart beat fast, partly due to the multitude of errands she had to undertake, and perhaps due to your proximity.

She withdrew her watch, anxiety mounting as she realized she was already behind schedule. She absentmindedly toyed with her money bag and threaded beads.

With a heavy heart, Jane resolved to curtail what she longed to say to you and the time she yearned to spend in your company.

"I have somewhere to be."

But as Jane went to stand, a clever idea struck her. Her gaze swiftly found yours, and you met it. Her eyes narrowed, trying to gauge your disposition.

Would this work? Would you grant her this favour? Did you share the same feelings she harbored- admiration, longing, desire?

For a moment, you seemed wary of her, but the hesitation quickly passed.

Her voice laced with hope and unspoken affection, "Would you be so kind as to deliver the suit when it is finished?"

She saw you pause, and her usual sureness left her body entirely. Although, she would never show it.

"Of- of course."

A smile played at Jane's lips; you were special to her.

But despite that fact, she had to feign indifference- treat you as nothing more than a passing acquaintance, one toward whom she harbored no affection, and from whom she expected none in return.

It was always the fault of her own, and she knew.

She felt a profound sense of loneliness, her demeanor threatening. She grasped others by the throats and shook them until they gave in for a breath, until they feared her, until they bent.

Yet in this moment, she posed the most important question; would you bend for her?

You had abandoned your sewing, observing her with unwavering attention.

Then, with a widening of her eyes, she saw you, she saw a glimpse of the innocence that she once held, and lost, mirrored in a young woman who was just a little lamb, the total opposite of herself.

Doubt clouded her mind, and Jane was no longer sure that her maliciousness was justified.

But you weren't so convinced, apparently.

"Lovely. Gladys will provide my address. I expect it by 5pm."

Jane stood and clasped her slightly trembling hands as she bid you farewell.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane opened the door, utterly surprised to see you standing in her home, nonetheless clad in a beautiful dress that accentuated your features and further illuminated your eyes. She was relieved when you looked her up and down, oblivious to the small blush that coloured her cheeks.

You smoothed the fabric of your dress and extended Edward's suit toward her.

"Here you are, Miss Murdstone. I hope it meets your satisfaction."

Jane accepted the suit with gentle hands, no longer concerned with the fit; it mattered little at this point.

"We are hosting a ball tonight."

She watched you avert your gaze from her and nod, perhaps in disinterest.

"I trust that it will be enjoyable."

Pausing to examine you, Jane pondered for a moment.

"I do hope."

A maid suddenly came barrelling up the stairs and entered her chambers, rudely interrupting, Jane thought.

"Miss Murdstone, let's prepare you for the ball."

As the maid entered, Jane noticed a shift in your gaze from the maid to herself, and she found a fleeting glimpse in your eyes, of something which she had not found previously.

In that moment, Jane decided to offer an option, accepting your response either way.

"It will commence at 8pm. You are welcome to join."

Jane regretted her impulsive words, aware that if you were to attend, she would be unable to focus on her duties. However, the thought of your presence stirred within her a thrill she has not felt in so long.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane was focused on her role of hosting, moving throughout the ballroom, and attending to the needs of her guests. She had no qualms, accustomed to yielding to her brother's wishes, until she caught sight of you out of her peripheral.

In the corner of the room, you stood sipping on a drink, bright eyes watching, observing, joyful.

Jane mirrored your actions, her gaze sweeping across the room.

She saw Edward with a woman, and most everyone else she knew paired off with their respective partners—someone they called theirs.

But she, well, she had nobody, and it seemed neither did you.

As the others began to dance in a slow waltz, Jane found herself consumed by thoughts of longing. She thought very much that she would like to dance with you.

Yet she knew it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be taken lightly.

The only person she desired to dance with was not within possibility. No, she could never bring herself to ask if you would fancy a dance with her, and so she quietly slipped away.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

As Jane sat in her chambers, a creak sounded from the hallway, followed by a momentary pause.

She waited in anticipation, uncertain of who it may be, but knowing there was possibility of it being you.

You, who followed her.

You, who shadowed her every move.

You, an innocent young woman filled with curiosity, fascination, interest.

When she heard nothing more, she mustered the courage to venture out of her chambers.

Slowly, she searched the corridor and other rooms, her heart pounding until she finally discovered a figure in her sanctum with bated breath.

Jane had left her notebook open on her desk, perhaps subconsciously harboring a flicker of hope—a wish that someone would stumble upon it, someone would understand, someone would lose themselves in her deepest thoughts and emotions.

But well, she didn't wish for someone, not just anyone, which was precisely why she had closed it only to reopen it earlier that day without a second thought.

She thought that she thought too much, she had no choice.

You were lost in her thoughts as she watched you from the doorway, suddenly beset by insecurity regarding her decision—to grant you access to her life, to her upbringing, to expose her true self to you.

Yet, your actions confirmed her suspicions, and her wish. As she watched your lips tremble, a surge of fear and anger overcame her.

She approached you silently, her hand landing firmly on your warm shoulder.

In that instant she found solace, and faint amusement flickered within her at the thought of events that had passed.

"I knew I would find you here."

Jane spun you around and grasped your neck, bony fingers tightening as she drew you closer. Your gaze broke her in a manner she had never experienced before; she had no choice but to be truthful.

"You fancy yourself sly, following me around, do you not?"

Your doe eyes widened at Jane's heavy words, hands trembling once again at her touch.

"Do not presume I failed to notice your presence."

She saw you.

"At first, I thought perhaps you wished me dead, the way you stock me."

Jane chuckled softly; this was ironic.

"Then I realized that you made no attempt to be stealthy."

She watched you swallow, an urge surging within her to draw you even closer.

"We share the same interests, do we not?"

With a nod from you, albeit hesitant, Jane became more brazen.

A smirk graced her lips as she leaned closer, her breath brushing against your ear; you shivered.

You closed your eyes, as did she.

"Do not think I miss the way you look at me."

Jane attempted to sound firm and unwavering, yet she was guilty as well.

"Do not think I miss the way you tremble when I'm close."

She knew of the way you craved her, she understood.

"Do not think I miss your desire."

It was incredible, really, how energy made up the universe, how matter was eternal, how it could be neither created nor destroyed.

Both of you, electron orbitals overlap, not separate, but existing as one with her hand around your neck, around your lifeline.

She shook you until you gave in for a breath, until you feared her, until you bent.

But Jane harbored no desire for you to fear her, no desire for you to bend, not in the manner she wished for others to. See, it wasn’t just desire that tied Jane to you, it was hope.

People said that she was cold, cruel, harmful, metallic.

A cold shell of defensive whips and comments; once a girl imbued with warmth, a girl born to love.

Jane wished for her outward demeanor to mirror her innermost self, knowing she wore a facade of disdain, yet feeling anything but inside.

See, she was sly, smart, and deceiving, perhaps appearing as malicious and distant; but perhaps that's how she wished to appear.

You, however, were smart, witty, and perceptive, but you wore her heart on your sleeve, intentions written plain as day. An open book, placed for all to see; but only some to analyze, only some to admire.

Jane longed to shed her pretenses, to be her true self, to be as real as you, maybe even more so.

Your hands encircled Jane's waist as she sensed you pressing closer into her grasp.

Soft lips met her jawline, and in that moment, she decided that she would bend; she wouldn't mind, not for you.

Jane stiffened in defense and increased her grip as she felt you smile against her skin. Her lips opened in a soft gasp as she let out a breath, inhaling your scent.

Your words, spoken with a fervor she never anticipated from your lips, made her falter.

"I suffer, I attach, I crave, and I desire. And I always get what I desire."

[the-rainbow-suit-dude]

When your mom asked you to help her make glass snowmen out of things she found at the thrift store so of course it ended up being an entire civilization of women, two of which are Lorna and Florence, roommates. Florence’s husband tragically died in a terrible accident, and since then she has lived in a little one bedroom cottage with her roommate Lorna. The two are absolutely inseparable, to the point they shower together to save water. Aren’t they just such good snowlady friends?

[worm-f00d]

Enjoy this very gay tintype of me and my partner 📸

[levinson-mannion]

Rosamund and Delilah + confession for the word drabble, please? Thank you!

“Miss Mellark.”

Delilah turned around so fast she didn’t realise she let her bow go till she heard the arrow lodge itself into a nearby tree.

Rosamund smirked and that’s when Delilah realised she was staring holding her bow by her side, “Rosamund! How long have you been there?”

“Only a few minutes, you’re a good singer.” Delilah blushed realising Rosamund heard her quitely singing to herself as she set up. That’s when Delilah got lost in her head, thinking about Rosamund setting up with her, packing the things away and walking back to a cottage together hands entwined and voices low as they talk about everything and nothing maybe sometimes placing a small kiss on her lips-

“Delilah??” She was quickly snapped out her thoughts by Rosamund’s concerned voice.

“Huh? Sorry I didn’t hear you.”

“What you thinking about hm? How you have the most amazing friend in the world meaning me?”

“Oh” she laughs “obviously.”

Rosamund walked over to the tree that still held Delilah’s arrow and pulled it out with ease, allowing Rosamund to see her muscles flexing even through her dress and if that made her maybe wish she was being pinned against the tree well that wasn’t her fault.

Rosamund made her way over and put the arrow back in Delilah’s quiver and her hand ghosted Delilah’s cheek and she sucked in a breath and stared at Rosamund.

“Delilah are you alri-“

Without a thought Delilah leaned forward and kissed Rosamund. It was short, no more then a few seconds but in that short time Delilah hoped to show her true feelings in that one touch of lips.

She then regained her mind and stood back, wide eyed and shocked at what she did. “I-I’m sorry um- please don’t get me arrested I-I don’t ever have to see you again I’m sorry-“

Before she could finish apologising Rosamund closed the distance once more and cupped her cheek, joining lips once more.

“Oh-“

“I didn’t know you liked girls, Miss Mellark.”

“I didn’t know you did either Lady Rosamund.” She was hardly able to keep her grin from covering her features.

“Do you like me Miss Mellark?”

“Yes- I do I have for a while, I didn’t think you would like me but I love you.”

“Well, Delilah, I am incredibly happy to hear that because I love you too.” She smiled and kissed her partners hand but Delilah once more pulled her down into a kiss, far more passionate then the previous two but perfectly subtle for the situation.

@downton-bridgerton

[arithegreat-666]

These are my ocs but if they were a Victorian vampire and her girlfriend being a pretty victim (she asked her to bite her) and they were caught

Oops

[laurellala-comics]

Fun fact! This was the real tipping point that made Edgeworth run away after AA1, they just couldn't show it on screen because they didn't have the rights to Chappell Roan's music <3

(A spiritual successor to my "Hot to Go" joke from this post. Image description under the cut below)

[Image ID: a four page black and white comic of characters from ace attorney.

The Judge stands solemnly at his podium holding a gavel "Mr. Miles Edgeworth, you are on trial for the murder of blah blah blah..."

A cheerful Maya Fey leans over to Miles Edgeworth, who is staring straight ahead and looking very concerned

Maya: "Psst! Mr. Edgeworth! If you win your trial, can I show you Chappell Roan?

Miles: "What the hell, sure." Internally he thinks "Oh God I am going to jail"

A box saying "later" in the top corner of the next panel marks the passage of time.

The Judge smiles as he says "I declare you... Not Guilty!"

We see a full body shot of Maya dancing excitedly while Miles looks on, emotionless

Maya: YIPPEE omg you're going to LOVE this

Miles internally thinks "oh no, the consequences of my actions.

We see Miles standing in between Phoenix Wright and Maya looking apprehensive. Maya beams in excitement, while Nick puts a reassuring hand on Miles' shoulder

Miles: Alright, so what is this exactly?

Nick: She's a pop musician Maya really likes

Maya: You promised you'd let me show you, and it's legally binding because you said it in a court room!

Miles: That is not how the law works Ms. Fey

Maya: Shh just listen!

We see a panel of Miles' pensive face concentrating as he listens to "Hot to Go". He thinks to himself "hm".

Another panel zoomed in more. His pensive expression has grown more tense/confused as he listens to "Red Wine Supernova". he again thinks to himself "Hm" in a larger thought bubble.

We zoom out again to see Nick, Miles, and Maya standing together again. Miles stares forward blankly, eyebrows raised. Maya excitedly leans in.

Maya: Ok, that's her whole discography. So! What did you think?

Nick looks at him, waiting for his response

We get a panel of Miles, looking bewildered. He starts to speak "I..."

We cut again to see the three of them standing together.

Miles: I... don't think I like women?

Miles looks shocked and confused. Nick is bent over laughing, using a hand on Miles's shoulder to support himself. Maya looks outraged and appalled!

Maya: MR. EDGEWORTH! Just because you don' like her musi it doesn't give you an excuse to be sexist!

We see a panel of Miles looking stressed and confused. He leans his head on one of his hands, which messes up his hair, showing how he isn't his normal put together self.

Miles: I should rephrase that. What I mean is, Ms. Roan is clearly VERY assured in her feelings towards women. I was... unaware that anyone felt that strongly. I thought we all viewed these things with a vague sense of distaste and unease but collectively ignored it. Like how we do with climate change.

We zoom out again to see the three of them. Miles stands in the middle looking deeply uncomfortable and lost in thought, vibrating with unease. Nick and Maya exchange deeply concerned glances across from him.

With lingering unease, Miles begins to walk away.

Miles: Well, I should be going then. Goodnight.

Nick hesitantly raises a finger to point out an inaccuracy in that statement

Nick: It's four in the afternoon-

he gets interrupted by Miles who repeats firmly: I said Goodnight

Nick looks in the direction Miles walked off in.

Nick: ...He'll be ok, right?

Maya reassures him: Of cours Nick! I mean, what's the worst that can happen?

Jump cut to a closeup of Nick's hand holding Miles' letter which reads Miles Edgeworth chooses death in all caps. Then, below in smaller font, it says Also femininomenon was really good, thanks.

We see a panel of Nick glaring wordlessly at Maya as he holds the letter in his hand. Maya leans against the wall and looks away, whistling, trying to look innocent to avoid blame.

As a bonus, we also have a page that takes place a year later. Miles and Nick stand talking. Miles looks calmer now, and Nick smiles encouragingly.

Miles: In my time in Europe, I've been examining myself and my approach to law. Ultimately, the most important focus must be justice. We owe it to ourselves and to the people we serve

Nick: Wow, that's really inspiring Edgeworth. And, uh, hows the... the other thing going?

We get a zoomed in panel of Miles glaring menacingly at a suddenly nervous Nick

Jumping out again, Miles turns his back to Nick as he continues to talk

Miles: So as I was saying, justice is truly so important...

Nick nervously rubs the back of his neck wearing an awkward expression as he sweats nervously. He thinks to himself internally "Ooookay then, clearly still working through some things there"

/.End ID]

[biromanticwritergal]

Do your characters judge you? Because mine do all the time!

[periodcostumefantasylover]

Lucy Westenra & Mina Harker in Bram Stokers Dracula

[weemsfreak]

Desire ♱

⋆Reader's pov and main story (recommend read first)⋆

Jane Murdstone x Fem!reader

♱ Jane's pov here

Summary: When the lady of the village returns after many years and ends up in your place of work, you fabricate a dress for her; and then you follow her. ~5k words

Warnings: obsession, stocking, mention of child abuse, family trauma and father issues (as in Jane/Edward Murdstone 'David Copperfield')

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The bakery, the factory, the church, and the bank.

Places which she ventured on a normal day,

Places which you ventured on a normal day.

Things that she did,

Things that you did.

The gallery, the haberdashery, the manor house gardens.

She was busy,

You were busy.

Wherever she went, you followed.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The ball rang out, signifying that someone had entered. You ignored it from the next room, not wanting to drop your task at hand.

"Well, I'll be. It has been a long while Miss Murdstone."

You rolled your eyes and mouthed Gladys' words, mocking the dressmaker as you continued to cut out fabric.

"Indeed, it has."

Your hands stopped working at the sound of a voice, gaze slowly raising to the wall as you listened. You heard shuffling to Gladys' workspace, a coat hit the settee.

"How has Blunderstone treated you? Glad to be back at the factory?"

A hum. "It has been a good many years, although a dreadful end I'm afraid. I am glad to be back."

Your eyes flit around the room; the factory? Miss Murdstone?

Oh. OH. The Miss Murdstone of Murdstone village. The sister of factory owner Mr. Murdstone.

You had never met the Murdstone's, but you had heard of them and their reputation in their own village. They had been gone for some ten years; a marriage, you had heard. And it seemed that now, they were back.

You prayed that Gladys wouldn't call you in for help as you were not very confrontational, and you had heard that the lady could be, well, cruel.  

Slowly you continued to cut out fabric, listening in on their conversation as you did.

The contrast of murmuring and sureness calmed you, the new voice in particular was melody to your ears. It was strong yet weak, cold yet warm, confident yet weary, cruel yet sweet; you longed to know what body housed a voice like that.

Inevitably, Gladys called your name from the next room.

You screwed your eyes closed and took a deep breath before dropping everything and heading through the doorway.

"Yes, how can I help-"

Your eyes flit from Gladys to a tall dark figure. One which caught you off guard, before it consumed you.

Ghost white skin sandwiched between midnight hair and a dress to match, the length of which you've never seen the likes of before.

Her gaze was locked onto the wall, until she noticed you staring.

Expectant eyes shot to you and made your heart flutter nervously, you averted your gaze back to Gladys.

It seemed that the only colour this woman possessed was that of her iris', which made them stand out even more.

"Y/n, this is Miss Murdstone."

You moved closer and gave a small bow, eyes on the floor. "How do you do Miss Murdstone."

"Well, thank you."

You nodded with a small smile.

"Help me with this, will you?" Gladys passed you a measure and gestured to her skirts, to which you lifted and got to work.

Black fabric, not something you worked with often, although it was certainly growing on you. You looked between dark and the light of her petticoat, and you wished for the chance to see long legs hidden underneath. Alas, petticoats were not see through.

Miss Murdstone was not a very social woman, though you were not surprised at her lack of emotion or chatter, as there was not much about her that was mainstream.

You stood and helped Gladys with small things, measuring around her bodice, shoulders, and arm length, the lady stiff as a board. Your hands trembled as you worked, which neither woman failed to notice.

You couldn't help but steal glances at the lines in the woman's skin, dark hair tied up neatly, scars and light freckles placed perfectly, as if they were intentional.

You couldn't help but think that she looked as if she was made of wax.

Cold fingers brushed against the pale skin of her neck and she flinched, a string of apologies flowing from your mouth. You stepped away and let Gladys finish the job, the only thing going through your head was how warm the woman was to the touch.

Being sent on your way with the measurements, you began to cut out black fabric. More length added to the sleeves and skirt, waist cinched just a bit.

You worked in the corner of the room, stealing glances at the dark woman though the doorway now and then. When you had left, the women began to make small conversation again; you closed your eyes and listened to her voice.

You hadn't noticed when the bell had rung and she had left, until Gladys walked in.

"A pretty young thing like you shant be intimidated by Miss Murdstone."

Your eyes shot to Gladys as a light blush overtook your cheeks. You were intimidated alright, but not in the way she thought.

You hummed, "Maybe not intimidated, but overtaken."

"Get to work silly girl" she chuckled, pointing down at the barely touched black fabric in your hands.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

You could tell by the way she carried herself through life, by the way that she spoke to people (or didn't acknowledge them at all), that she was cold, iron, wrought, metallic.

Yes, that was it, she was metallic, and she possessed some type of pull. You failed to fight it off with bated breath when dark yet enchanting eyes met yours.

What really pulled you in, however, was her mysterious nature. Her front was menacing, her cruelty was obvious, her exterior freezing anyone who dared cross her path.

She was a delight, far more true than you could ever be.

Being a dressmaker's apprentice, you didn't have every day to venture around Murdstone village. But when you did, you made it worthwhile.

You had been intrigued by her since the day she stepped into the shop, and soon enough, you became attached.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

It was easy to spot her through the crowd of people, being one of the tallest, darkest, and notable around.

You wouldn't say that you stalked her, no, for you ran your errands in the same way as she, and your interests matched hers well.

That became clear when one day you took a stroll through the manor house gardens and found her, admiring the Nettles from afar.

Nettles were not much to the naked eye, and they stung like a bitch when one got close. Alas, their being was important, indispensable, beautiful; like her.

Cold on the outside and warm on the inside.

You sat on a bench next to some Black Calla Lily's, and couldn't help but think about how the flowers reflected the both of you. These particular Lily's caught your eye and drew you in, but get too involved and their toxins could harm you.

Warm on the outside and cold on the inside.

Perhaps you were both deceiving.

Her back faced you tauntingly as you longed to admire her features. You hadn't gotten a satisfying look at her, although you assumed nobody had ever gotten very close.

Holding your breath, she turned to continue down the path, head held high as she gazed straight ahead.

She didn't look your way, she didn't acknowledge you, no, she didn't say a word.

Yet you knew her, you knew she was perceptive, she noticed every detail.

And deep down you knew that she knew you were there.

She always did.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

You were suffering throughout your days and nights, physically unable to get the metallic lady out of your head. You hadn't been this obsessed, this buried, this crazy for a woman.

You knew it was wrong, to want her, to want to know her, to want to feel her dark locks run through your fingers.

You knew it was wrong to watch from afar, even worse to get close; but you couldn't help it.

She was enchanting, she was brooding, she was maddening.

One bright morning you arrived to church early, and placed yourself in the very pew where the Murdstone's always sat. You took the hymnal and prayer books and moved them to another pew, leaving only one set of books available.

After some time, Mr. Murdstone passed the pew, giving you a look of disdain before continuing on.

Your gaze dropped to your lap nervously, unsure as to where she was.

Another moment passed, and you noticed a shadow beside you, then felt a soft brush against your leg.

It was so soft you believed it was imagined.

"Apologies."

Looking over in disbelief, you found the metallic woman beside you, her attention set on the priest.

As the service progressed, you couldn't help but wrack your brain around her being. For as much as you knew her, or at least thought that you did, as much as you saw her, you couldn't tell.

After eyeing her at church a couple days a week, you realized she was a devoted congregant. She gave the impression that she was one who would reprimand for breaking the rules, for not adhering to the faith's principles.

But all the same, she seemed as though she'd like to bend them, challenge society's expectations, and oppose normalcy, as it was obvious she didn't follow every mainstream convention.

You had confirmed recently, after some research, that 'Miss' Murdstone was not married; but for which reason, you wondered often.

Long fingers opened the prayer book and held it still as a stone on her lap, eyes scanning the words slowly.

Silently, you leaned closer, setting your gaze on her as she peered down at you. You smiled, watching her lips twitch and eyes bore into your own in question; then the prayer book was angled so you both could recite together.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

One day, you set out determined for your destination: the gallery.

See, there was not much that you knew, but there were a few things. One being that the gallery bustled with activity on a certain day of the week, and another being that Jane Murdstone was a sucker for all things nice.

The Cultural and Historical collections always inspired you, and allowed you to indulge in the fantasy of a better world, a more interesting world, a world in which you were yourself, truly.

And well, as did she.

As expected, Miss Murdstone made her way around a glass case following the male version of herself. You recognized him immediately, the man of the village.

Watching from the other side of the room, you took note of their differences and similarities. Physical was obvious, they were tall, they were dark, and they were chilling.

Your heart couldn't help but feel heavy, as although she was striking, easily catching your eye even next to her brother, she was the lesser.

It was obvious that she was more brazen, more intelligent, and more capable; alas, he was the man, and she was the woman.

You ran your hand over an artifact, pressing your skin hard into the rough texture.

Glass should cover something so fragile, so special, so significant, you thought, for someone could steal it with the snap of a finger.

You could steal it with the snap of a finger. You wouldn't, however, not now. For you had something far more important to tend to.

A dark figure caught your peripheral, your eyes discreetly landing on the woman as your head stayed focused in the direction of the artifact.

You watched as long fingers ran over a piece opposite, feeling the atoms that made up the world, perhaps a world in which you had yet to know.

You took a deep breath, gaze lifting when her pale hand paused in its track.

You were expecting it, her eyes on her pray, on her goal, on you.

Touché. You respected the effort, the care, the menacing stare, but it was of no use.

You stared back, taking in the elements of her skin, the light in her eyes, and the hate in her heart.

It was incredible, really, how energy made up the universe, how matter was formed, how it could be neither created nor destroyed.

She saw you and you saw her, but nobody spoke a word.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Miss Murdstone spoke few words to you the couple times that she entered the shop; for her measurements, her dress, and then again when a colleague had tailored a suit for her brother.

You understood that you knew her better than she knew you, for you were just a dressmaker whose name had most likely slipped her mind.

Alas when you watched her on the streets, back and forth with long strides, elegance never faltering, haughtiness never letting up, she never failed to deepen your infatuation.

You admired the way she gave no thought nor care about others' opinions, the way she could allow- feed into the absolute cruelty, perhaps hate that came out of her mouth.

The way she let it happen, the way she lived for it.

You were high as the heavens the one time she had spat at you. It was short, nothing that she thought twice about, but you were truly and utterly drunk on her.

Others you knew, didn't appreciate being spoken down to that way, looked at with a bitter glance, nor dealt with in that sneering tone.

And well, most of the time you wouldn't either.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The factory, a place of your dreams and nightmares.

In your favour, it wasn't difficult to sneak into at night, the bottles and barrels and wine and corks the only witnesses of your doing.

Their livelihood, their significance, the thing that gave the Murdstone's the justification to be poison; possibility to be ruined within hours.

You ran a finger along a trail of dust as a smirk crept over your face. Mr. Murdstone was too pretentious for his own good, careless perhaps, not too smart it seemed; but you were.

For his sake, and his sake only, it was a damn good thing that his sister had consumed your every thought.

By morning you had tucked yourself deep behind the shelves.

People of every age, those of every kind made their way into the factory, cleaning, filling, corking, labelling, and packaging.

You were caught off guard when you eyed Mr. and Miss Murdstone make their way around the factory, inspecting the work and the workers. They passed by the shelves with a step that felt far too long. You froze at their proximity, for you had no escape.

Letting out a breath, you watched as they halted near a small boy, a boy far too short to reach the corking lever.

"Jump, boy" Mr. Murdstone instructed.

The boy tried, pathetically.

"You should sooner teach the furniture" the lady said to her brother.

You held in a snicker.

"Jane" Mr. Murdstone warned.

You watched as he attempted to jump, Mr. Murdstone frustrated with his lack of effort.

"You will not be switched to another job, boy."

He jumped higher and had yet to reach.

Miss Murdstone turned to her brother with the raise of a brow, "We should switch to a less enjoyable activity."

"JANE."

Mr. Murdstone grabbed the child by his shirt, dragging him to a secluded room and slamming the door with no hesitation.

Miss Murdstone followed with hands clasped in front of her, then you heard grunting and lashing sounds. Your eyes shut and you flinched at the suddenness, whacking your head off a board.

Blue eyes travelled your way, somehow hearing your skull make contact with the wood over the loudness of everything else. The metallic woman looked in your direction, around you, above you, and you could swear it, straight at you. But she couldn't see you through the willful blindness of the bottles and barrels.

Her gaze was averted, however, when a tall boy made his way toward her with intent.

Your eyes widened as you watched him pick up a glass bottle, your brain registering that he most likely wished to protect the child; but harming Miss Murdstone wasn't the way.

With a deepening heart beat you contemplated the fact that you may have to reveal yourself, jump in front of hard glass in shame and remorse before ghostly pale skin turned crimson.

But, as you watched the metallic woman, you noticed her smirk; joy, thrill, and humour behind her eyes.

She faltered for a moment when she noticed the bottle, lips twitching; a moment of hurt. Still, she stood her ground, eyes unblinking.

He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, and she knew.

For they were cruel, they were cold, and they were abusive, perhaps.

But she now had no fear, for she was used to it.

When the boy turned away and you watched her smirk return, chest falling slightly in relief, it made sense.

You realized why she was the way that she was; beaten, bruised, petrifying, and cruel. It wasn't anything new, it wasn't unfamiliar or forced. It was all that she knew.

It was what she knew, it was who she was brought up to be; the little girl, the woman, the one who took care of the men.

The one who listened to their commands but rose to control when they were too coward.

The one who was reprimanded when she spoke her mind but was brought up to be superior all the same.

The girl who said nothing and was harmed for her warmth, now a cold shell of defensive whips and comments; in a woman's body tall enough to make the men resentful.

She was born to love and taught to hate, for she had no choice.

She had no choice.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The lady had returned to the shop days later with Mr. Murdstone's suit, shoving it into your coworkers' arms.

"You measured incorrectly" she grumbled.

His jaw fell open as he looked it over, scratching at his head, "Where is it incorrect, my lady?"

You held in a laugh as she flung the trousers over his arm and pointed to the hem. "They need to be taken out. He's not lacking in stature like yourself."

Nodding, he made his way to the next room. "I need it finished for tonight" you heard her holler.

"Of course, Miss Murdstone."

You were sat on the settee, sewing a piece and trying your hardest to pretend she wasn't there, hoping you wouldn't have to entertain her.

Alas, as it was, you longed to converse with her, you longed to entertain her.

You longed to run your eyes over her frame, yearned to move closer and take in her deathly smell, her serene eyes and ghostly skin.

You longed to run your hands along the warmth of her neck once again and know that she was real.

Heeled steps approached as your mind went blank and heart began to race. She sat down next to you.

"Men, incompetent" was all that she said.

You felt bad for him, of course you did, but you couldn’t help but snicker at her comment.

"Indeed."

You admired very much that she spoke her mind and wished to give her the ability to feel freely, without reprimand and without judgment.

Attempting to focus back on your work, you were distracted when she withdrew her pocket watch. Busy fingers wrapped around the intricate watch and chain before moving to toy with the money bag and beads hanging off her chatelaine.

A sigh, "I have somewhere to be."

You ignored the burning question in your mind, 'where?'

The woman turned to you suddenly, your gaze shot to hers.

Her dark blues narrowed as if she knew what you were doing: following, admiring, chasing, craving her.

Your heart almost jumped out of your throat as you thought of her knowing, knowing of your attachment, knowing of your enamour, knowing of your desire.

You calmed however, when you realized that you didn't see rage in her eyes, but intrigue; for she had an idea.

"Would you be so kind as to deliver the suit when it is finished?"

You tilted your head at her sickly sweet tone, figuring that it was the only way she knew to get people to bend for her, to get you to bend for her.

But you would bend for her coldness, you would bend for her cruelness, you would bend for her warmth, you would bend for her anyway she'd ask, fake or sincere.

You would bend for her.

Yes you knew of many places, the factory that you should not enter, the bakery, the grocer, the bank, the haberdashery, and her leisurely activities, but you didn't know of her home.

You didn't know her that well.

You stuttered in surprise, "Of- of course."

A smile played at her lips, but you knew you weren't special.

When her dark blue eyes bore into your own and you saw the hate, you knew that her thoughts were nothing but careless, nothing but mean, nothing but questioning.

You wondered how someone could be so…brave? Sadistic? So content with being unliked by others, even intentionally resented.

Lonely? You could say. Perhaps you both had something in common.

She grasped others by the throats and shook them until they gave in for a breath, until they feared her, until they bent.

You wouldn't mind that, not from her, not at all.

You saw it run through her mind with a slight widening of eyes, as if she was attempting to convince herself that her maliciousness was justified.

For you, well you were just a young girl, a little lamb. You were the innocence that she once had and lost, the total opposite of her.

But you, you weren't so convinced.

"Lovely. Gladys will provide my address. I expect it by 5pm."

She stood abruptly and exited the shop, leaving you alone.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The suit was done by 4pm, you prayed that it would fit perfectly. Not that you were opposed to being rebuked by Miss Murdstone, but you truly wanted nothing but to please her.

Wearing one of your favorite dresses, you set out to the Murdstone's estate, walking through the surprisingly busy streets with curiosity.

The door was open when you arrived, and you were greeted by a maid who was bustling around. They informed you where to take the suit due to their current occupation.

You found yourself nervously knocking on a door in a dark hallway, sure that this was a ruse.

The door swung open quickly at the hand of Miss Murdstone, making you flinch in surprise.

You took in the sight of her in her new black dress, one which you had the pleasure of aiding in the fabrication of. It clung to her figure perfectly, defining strong shoulders and a cinched waist.

Smoothing out the fabric of your dress, you attempted not to drool as you extended the suit out to her.

"Here you are, Miss Murdstone. I hope it meets your satisfaction."

She took the suit from you gently, giving you an expectant look as she stayed silent.

"We're hosting a ball tonight."

You averted your gaze to the window at the end of the hall, nodding in understanding and jealousy.

"I trust that it will be enjoyable."

You watched as she looked you up and down, you felt that this was the most attention she had ever given you.

"I do hope."

Silence. You had much to say, but no will to say it.

Whether it was your imagination or a mutual understanding, your relationship seemed to be based on physicality, lacking verbal connection.

A maid then came barreling up the stairs, carrying many things in preparation of the night. "Miss Murdstone, let's prepare you for the ball."

You watched as she entered Miss Murdstone's chambers and disappeared from your sight, the lady allowing her access. Your eyes flit from the maid to hers, screaming with want for a job which you did not have, did not desire; until now.

She spoke with a tone of genuine disinterest, yet the invitation in itself told you something.

"It will commence at 8pm. You are welcome to join."

⋆♱✮♱⋆  

You had been welcomed into their home, but it felt unsettling all the same. Her unknowing of your presence, or at least not expecting it, gave you the ability to be discreet.

But here, you felt as if something was expected of you, as if she had invited you just to watch you. Ironic.

Few eyes glanced your way as you took your time admiring the Murdstone's estate. Upper class fascinated you, elaborate décor and offerings made you feel envious, yet insignificant at the same time.

You weaved through the crowd of people, introducing yourself as you picked up a glass. Most likely you looked out of place, you knew, despite the fact that you were dressed appropriately.

You were intrigued, however, as you desired to learn more about their lives; desired to learn more about her life.

Not to your surprise, as the night progressed you caught her moving throughout the ball room.

She was on a mission as always, it seemed, tending to others needs and wants in hopes of a pleasant ball; in her role of pleasing her brother. Your eyes followed her tall form as you sipped your drink in a corner, absolutely content.

For a while.

Enjoyment flowed through you as you watched others dance, resisting the urge to join in. You hesitated as your heart panged, knowing that the only person you desired to dance with was not within possibility.

Eventually you had lost sight of her, only Mr. Murdstone in the centre of the room dancing with a woman, so you left.

You quietly snuck to the main room of the house, debating on departing until you realized that nobody was around.

Sneaking up the stairs, you ran your hand along the balustrade, stopping at the top to utilize the light of some candles. If anyone caught you, you were searching for the loo.

A large family portrait on the wall greeted you, an eerie feeling overwhelming you at the sight of the Murdstone family.

The mother, a force to be reckoned with. The father, a tyrannical aristocrat. And the son, vindictive.

As your eyes raked over the young girl, however, you realized she was just that, a young girl.

A young girl born into upper class, born into cruelty, born into a life that was not chosen but wholly hers.

You supposed nobody really had a choice.

The candles guided your attention to an open door, the floor creaking when you stepped closer.

You longed to enter, but a deep dreadful feeling in your chest told you not to.

Shaking your head, you stepped away; but your curiosity got the best of you, as always.

The dimly lit room was lined with books and filled with décor, artifacts, and art. It was the most interesting room you had ever known.

You ran your fingers along an open book on the table, the intricate writing making you guess it was that of a woman.

'My father has gotten…better.

I cannot help but wonder if it is too late.

He now asks me why I am so angry, why I raise my voice.

He does not understand that

I learned it all from him.'

You sucked in a breath as your hand traced the ink. Being lost in her deepest written thoughts was…intense.

You turned pages upon pages for more, stopping at the most recent.

'I question my ability to experience the tender emotions of humanity.

To harbor affection in the manner of mortals.

The question for this issue is

Do I have a human soul,

And can I prove it?

And, of course,

There is no definitive answer.'

Your lip began to tremble at the tug of her words, of her thoughts, of her feelings.

She was no ghost, she was no wax figure, she was as real as you, maybe even more so.

As a small tear escaped your eye, a hand landed harshly on your shoulder.

"I knew I would find you here."

An amused but mocking voice.

She spun you around and grasped your neck, fingers reaching until they squeezed and pulled you close.

It felt pleasant, it felt warm, it felt real.

"You fancy yourself sly, following me around, do you not?"

Your eyes widened, hands trembling at her touch, clenching them at your sides.

"Do not presume I failed to notice your presence."

She saw you.

"At first, I thought perhaps you wished me dead, the way you stock me."

She chuckled.

"Then I realized that you made no attempt to be stealthy."

You were at first, but then you got sloppy. You swallowed thickly.

"We share the same interests, do we not?"

You nodded your head the best that you could, you truly did.

A smirk grazed her lips as she brought them to your ear, making you shiver at the proximity.

You closed your eyes.

"Do not think I miss the way you look at me."

She knew, she knew of your attachment.

"Do not think I miss the way you tremble when I'm close."

She knew of the way you craved her.

"Do not think I miss your desire."

 It was incredible, really, how energy made up the universe, how matter was eternal, how it could be neither created nor destroyed.

Both of you, electron orbitals overlap, not separate, but existing as one with her hand around your neck, around your lifeline.

She shook you until you gave in for a breath, until you feared her, until you bent.

But you knew her now, unlike you did before.

You knew she wanted to toy with you, and well, you with her.

You wouldn't say that you were cold, cruel, or that you had ever harmed another; for you were just a little lamb.

But, when she looked at you with disdain, you wished to give her a taste of her own medicine.

You wished to slap the sly look off her face, tell her that she wasn't as cruel or deathly as she thought she was, put her down until she lost her sense of fabricated self and cold exterior- until she found her real self again, warmth staring back at you as her clothing and shell were shed.

See, she was smart, witty, and perceptive, but she wore her heart on her sleeve, intentions written plain as day.

An open book, placed for all to see; but only some to analyze, only some to admire.

You, on the other hand, were sly, smart, and deceiving.

Perhaps she saw you as a dumb, innocent, oblivious young woman; but perhaps that's what you wanted her to think.

Gently, you placed your hands onto her waist, pressing yourself further into her grip.

Your lips met her jawline softly, watching as her mouth opened slightly in a gasp, warm breath fanning across your temple.

You bit your lip in pleasure as a smile spread across your face, you breathed low:

"I suffer, I attach, I crave, and I desire. And I always get what I desire."

[cathyartie]

Toxic Yuri my beloved

[cowboyjediireblogsstuff]

Come see my new art blog @halofthebramblewoods Werewolf girlfriend comic in a SCAD digital art class. I started digital art a few months ago. Lily and Kitty the Victorian girlfriends one of which is a werewolf.

[corvidcrowned]

oh and here’s some good ol fashioned platonic girl’s night ^_^

[darkstalker-elise]

au where they're rival teachers and they're stuck in a blizzard alone together

[dianneking]

Victorian softness which seamlessly turns into hot smut? Uh, YAS please? 

I desire. And I crave.

part two

Jane Murdstone x fem!reader

series page

summary: Jane fights to recover from her illness. Our dear reader takes care of her, in more ways than one.

words: ~6k, ao3 link

chapter-specific warnings: mentions of illness, blood, mentions of death/near-death experience, soft!Jane but also mistress!Jane if you feel me lol, nsfw (smut) - thigh riding, spanking, fingering, cunnilingus, face-sitting

Jane is drifting in and out of consciousness. She’s dimly aware of a looming presence at her bedside, one that feels vaguely familiar and, for some reason, oddly comforting. She tries to force herself to sit up but her body feels like lead and she can barely open her eyes - when she does, everything is blurred, so she allows her eyelids to fall shut again. She feels so cold - except for her hand. That is strangely warm. Then there’s a sudden warmth on her cheek and she feels a distant pull near her jaw.

She hears a voice and tries hard, so hard, to concentrate on the words that all slur together, indistinguishable from one another. The voice is soft, kind - it somehow brings her great solace, even as her throat constricts and her lungs burn. She registers somewhere deep within her mind that the only voice that has been able to bring her such peace before is yours, and she attempts, again, to fight the ringing in her ears.

“I love you, Jane. Please don’t leave me.” She isn’t sure if she’s actually heard the words or if she’s dreamt them, her mind conjuring up beautiful fantasies for her final moments on earth. A shadow crosses her vision and then there’s a pressure on her forehead.

Jane fights to blink her eyes open again and, this time, succeeds as her eyelids begin to feel lighter and she finds she can focus on your face, hovering mere inches above hers.

She forces herself to speak, her voice weak and hoarse. “W-what did you say?” You freeze above her, eyes wide with panic.

“I’m sorry, milady!” You look frightened and you don’t repeat yourself, and Jane feels as if she’ll go insane if she doesn’t hear those words again, words she is still so sure she’s hallucinated.

“S-say-” she clears her throat - it still hurts, but it no longer feels like she is fighting for air - something within her has gotten lighter. “Say it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut but Jane’s fingers twitch underneath your hand and you open them again, now staring deeply into the half-lidded oceans of blue gazing blearily up at you. “I love you,” you say, your voice shaking. Even as she clings onto the last threads of life, her gaze is piercing and intense - all-consuming. “Jane,” you add quickly.

“I love you.” Could it be? It takes her a few moments to process the words and the weight that they hold. She had never entertained the idea, never dared allow herself to hope that you could return her feelings. She hasn’t heard those three words in a very, very long time, and to hear them from you? 

Jane no longer feels as though she is drowning, tied to a rock and sinking, sinking to the bottom of a deep lake. Everything feels lighter - it’s then that it hits her: her love for you is requited - the disease will fade. Death is not coming to claim her, not quite yet. The thought both thrills and terrifies her - she hadn’t planned for this.

“Foolish girl.” It comes out a strangled whisper - it’s all Jane can muster as she registers the sudden hammering of her heart and the blood rushing to her face. A billion thoughts race through her mind at once but she is too exhausted to linger on any one thought in particular.

Jane looks up at you, observing - the way your cheeks turn pink under her stare, the way you seem to be holding your breath. There’s a certain look in your eyes, a strange look, but one she’s seen before. She could never quite place it and always took it for an unexpressed hatred or contempt of her own abrasiveness. But in this moment, she recognizes it for what it is - hunger. Desire. 

She extracts her hand from your own. Her arm feels heavy but she lifts it higher, higher until she can wrap her hand around the top of your throat, fingertips pressing into your jaw. 

~~~

Jane’s grip is weak but intentional and you find yourself held captive, unable (and, frankly, unwilling) to fight it. You can feel your pulse in your extremities as she drags you forward by the jaw, her sapphire eyes fixated on your lips as her tongue darts out to wet her own. Her intent is quite clear to you as she pulls and pulls until your lips hover over hers, your shaky breaths mingling. 

She seems to want to lift her head, to close the gap, but the effort is too much and she lets out a frustrated growl, so you do it - you crash your lips into hers.

They are cold and slightly cracked, yet still you find yourself needing more. You swipe your tongue over her lower lip, gently insisting she part her lips for you. She does and you lick into her mouth, a metallic taste hitting your tongue - blood, from her earlier coughing. You try to pull away, less out of disgust - you really don’t mind at all, you find - but more out of concern for Jane. She doesn’t let you, however, her fingers holding you firmly in place, her tongue sliding desperately against yours. You whimper into her mouth and she lets out a soft moan in return, muffled against your lips. It’s a heavenly sound, and you want to hear more. You need to hear more. 

Your hands fist at her nightgown and Jane loosens her grip on your jaw to slide her hand behind your ear, fingers curling loosely in your hair. You begin to suck at Jane’s lower lip, hoping she’ll find it pleasurable, and you’re thrilled when she whimpers softly at the sensation.

There’s a weak tug at your hair and you pull back, looking down at Jane who is breathing rather heavily, as if fighting for air. It may take her a while to recover from the disease, you realize - it had been rather advanced.

A part of you is still reeling from the realization that you are the one Jane desires - that you are the one Jane loves. You wish she had told you sooner - you are all too aware of the fact that Jane had been ready to succumb to illness, that she would have died believing her feelings for you were entirely unrequited. But then if she had told you sooner, she wouldn’t be the proud, stubborn woman you’ve found yourself falling in love with.

“Milady…”

“Please- can you please call me Jane when we’re alone?” Her voice is hoarse and pleading, and the request makes your heart flutter in your chest.

“Yes, of course. Jane,” you breathe out.

You cannot help yourself - you beam down at her. Her own lips curl up ever so slightly at the corners. The smile does not hold its usual patronizing contempt - it is timid, certainly, but decidedly warm, and you’re sure Jane has not smiled at anyone else like that in the time you’ve known her.

“May I take care of you?” There’s a touch more confidence in your voice as you feel out the new boundaries of your relationship with the other woman. She blinks, remaining silent for a moment. The moment stretches on and on, so long that you’re bracing yourself for rejection, when Jane gives the smallest of nods, her cheeks regaining a touch of color.

~~~

You scurry down to the kitchens as fast as your feet will take you. The other servants look at you curiously but don’t dare say a word. You ask Louise to cook a beef tea for Miss Murdstone - Jane - and have Emily bring it up as soon as it’s finished. In no time at all, you’re letting yourself back into Jane’s chambers, a clean rag in hand which you wet in the basin in the corner of the room and bring to Jane’s bedside.

You use the damp cloth to wipe the blood and sweat off of Jane’s skin - you are gentle and meticulous, and you can feel Jane’s icy blue eyes tracking your every move with curiosity. When you are finished cleaning her up, you turn your attention to the petals covering the bed and the floor, sweeping them up and scrubbing at the dried blood on the floor.

It’s then that you notice that the petals perfectly match those of the phlox you’d gifted Jane - your heart swells, but you don’t comment on it, not wanting to embarrass Jane further.

“Will you allow me to plait your hair?”

“Yes.”

Fetching Jane’s brush, you return to her bedside. “Will you sit up for me?” You place your hands on her shoulders, helping her to a half-seated position so you can reach her hair better. You work the brush through the knots in her raven tresses, allowing your fingertips to linger in the softness of the freshly brushed hair. Before you can get too distracted, you set to work, carefully parting the strands and creating a loose plait, which you gently drape over her shoulder.

A knock at the door startles you - it must be Emily with the beef tea. It is, and you carry it over to Jane, careful not to spill a drop from the bowl, which is filled to the brim.

You bring a spoon full of the broth to Jane’s lips and she parts them slightly, accepting the nourishment without question. You are silent as you feed her, spoonful after spoonful, until the bowl is empty.

You spend the afternoon at Jane’s bedside, gently stroking her arm as she drifts in and out of consciousness. 

~~~ 

The next days pass in much the same way as Jane finally allows you to care for her. She spends most of the following day sleeping - it appears she sorely needs the rest to regenerate. She still refuses to be seen by a doctor, though she allows you to order Emily to bring up teas and broths, and allows you to feed them to her (“I can do it myself,” she says grumpily, but she doesn’t, allowing you to continue bringing the spoon to her lips and accepting the broth without hesitance). 

The first morning that she allows you to care for her, you are adamant about washing her hair. She concedes and you try to make the process as quick for her as possible, as she is still regaining strength. 

In the mornings that follow, you brush and plait her hair, allowing your fingers to linger on each lock, sometimes scratching your nails soothingly along her scalp - your stomach does a backflip when she moans softly at the sensation, and you have to squeeze your legs together to contain the heat that begins to course through your veins at the sensuality of the sound.

As you set about tidying her chambers afterwards, your eyes fall to the drawer of Jane’s nightstand, which is open just a crack. You are about to close it when a flash of white inside catches your eye - opening the drawer, you find petal upon petal; some brilliant white, some flecked with blood. You turn your head to Jane, who stares pointedly towards the window.

“Jane?” You aren’t sure whether the realization that Jane has hidden the illness from everyone by tucking the petals away should make you laugh or cry. It is somehow so very Jane that you almost find it humorous, though the thought of her carrying such a heavy burden all by herself makes your heart clench.

The woman refuses to look at you, though she wrings her hands in her lap and a faint blush colors her cheeks.

“I’ll just clean these up,” you say nonchalantly - it is clear that Jane is uncomfortable. Before you begin collecting the petals to throw away, however, you reach for Jane’s hand, gently stopping her from twisting her fingers as you stroke her knuckles. “I hope you never feel you have to carry such a burden on your own again,” you murmur.

Jane’s gaze falls to your intertwined hands in her lap as she answers. “Thank you.” The words seemingly claw their way out of her throat - they sound hoarse and are wavering with uncertainty, but you cherish them all the same.

~~~

“Will you read to me, little dove?” she asks one afternoon as she sits in bed after you’ve helped her change into a fresh nightgown, and you grin at her, reaching for the book of poems on her nightstand which you’ve been reading from in the past afternoons. 

You settle on the chair next to her bed that you have been inhabiting and open the tome, though before you can begin to read, Jane’s hand on your arm makes you pause.

You meet her gaze and she looks almost shy, hesitating before she speaks. When she does, her voice is low, barely audible.

“Will you sit with me?” Her request has you puzzled - you are sitting with her - until she shifts over slightly and you realize she wants you to sit on the bed with her. You feel your cheeks warm and your pulse quicken, and Jane senses your hesitation and begins to backtrack.

“It was a foolish idea, forget it,” she all but growls, glaring sullenly into her lap.

You roll your eyes and sigh dramatically, rising from your chair and walking around to the other side of the bed. Jane tracks your movements carefully.

“If it was a foolish idea then I’m a foolish girl,” you remark, waving your hands at Jane as if to say “move over” and climbing into bed next to her. You ignore her furrowed brow, likely a response to you commanding her around, and flip through the book of poetry until you find something you think Jane will like, then begin to read.

“What shall I send my sweet today, When all the woods attune in love? And I would show the lark and dove, That I can love as well as they.”

You can feel Jane’s eyes upon you, her gaze unwavering and intense, and your cheeks turn pink but you continue.

“I’ll send a locket full of hair-- But no, for it might chance to lie Too near her heart, and I should die Of love’s sweet envy to be there.” As you read to her, Jane gravitates closer and closer. 

“A violet is sweet to give-- Ah stay! She’d touch it with her lips, And after such complete eclipse, How could my soul consent to live?”

At first your thighs touch, then your arms, then she is all but clinging to you. You pretend not to notice.

“I’ll send a kiss for that would be The quickest sent, the lightest borne, And well I know tomorrow morn She’ll send it back again to me.”

Jane reaches up and plays with the soft ringlets of your hair that rest on your shoulders, causing your breathing to stutter. 

“Go, happy winds; ah, do not stay, Enamoured of my ladies cheek, But hasten home and I’ll bespeak Your services another day!”

Jane buries her hand in your hair, her nails gently scratching your scalp. You let out a contented sigh, allowing your eyes to flutter shut as you turn the page to the next poem. Jane, however, appears to have other plans, and she plucks the book from your hands.

You open your eyes and gaze curiously at her as she drops the book rather unceremoniously on the nightstand, turning her attention back to you. Her sapphires shine with an uncharacteristic warmth as her fingers reach out for your face, stroking your cheek with unexpected gentleness. 

“Jane?” It comes out a strangled whisper. The longer you gaze into her eyes, the greater the desire within you becomes, until the flames of your lust are roaring, licking at your insides, threatening to burn you down.

Jane is the first to move, closing the gap between the two of you as her lips crash desperately into your own. They are warm and soft now, and you melt into her. She wraps an arm around your waist, splaying her hand across your lower back and forcefully pushing until you are almost on top of her. Her other hand curls itself into your hair, long fingers brushing against your scalp as she finds purchase in the soft tresses before tightening her grip and tugging lightly, eliciting a gasp from your lips. The slight pain of the hair pulling feels delicious in contrast to the gentleness of Jane’s tongue as she explores your mouth, and you can’t help but push yourself flush against the older woman.

You suddenly feel starved, as though you’ve never been touched in your life and now you can’t get enough - and it’s true, a kind hand is rare in your line of work, and Jane has never made a move to hug you or anything of the sort. But right now, it is another kind of touch you seek, a touch you have only experienced once before, in your clumsy youth, that you had never dared dream you would receive from your mistress. Jane.

The hunger you feel for the woman is overwhelming and you feel you may perish if you aren’t able to touch her, if she doesn’t touch you in return. There is a throbbing between your legs and an inferno spreading outwards from your core and your lips tingle where they meet Jane’s, your lower back burns where her hand rests.

Jane’s tongue brushes against your own and you cannot help the wanton groan that escapes your throat. The noise appears to send Jane over the edge, all sense of propriety long forgotten - she sinks down and pulls you fully on top of her, both hands coming to the skirt of your dress and pulling it up over your hips.

Your breathing becomes labored as you feel her hands on the swell of your ass, as her fingers drift tantalizingly close to your core. You fist at her nightgown, tugging it upward to signal that you want it gone. Jane tuts at your impatience, but removes her hands from your body long enough to undo the buttons, the garment falling away from her front.

Your breath hitches audibly in your chest, your pupils dilating as you are met with the sight of her bare breasts, nipples hardened against the chill in the air. Being that you’ve helped her dress nearly every morning for the better part of two years, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. But this time, the context is wildly different, and a heady sort of dizziness overtakes you as you allow your eyes, for the first time, to roam freely over the soft, small mounds and the smooth, pale flesh.

Jane squirms underneath you and you meet her gaze to see her looking, for the first time, a little unsure of herself.

“You are beautiful,” you murmur, certain she can hear the awe in your voice for she blushes furiously and shakes her head.

“Silly girl,” she whispers back, before chasing your lips with her own.

You shift above her until her leg is slotted between yours and then you push down, smearing your wetness (and you are drenched) along her thigh as you rock back and forth. Jane gasps into your mouth, causing you to smile and spurring you on.

“Can you feel how much I desire you?” you ask boldly, your lips brushing against hers. You are almost nervous you’ve gone too far when Jane pauses for a moment, her breath coming out in short puffs against your lips. Then her hands grip desperately at your hips and she flexes her thigh against your center, causing you to cry out at the newly-found friction against your swollen bundle of nerves.

You grind down on Jane’s thigh, leaving a trail of slick along the smooth, milky expanse of skin. Jane’s hands push you firmly down, and you begin to gyrate your hips, finding a steady rhythm which builds the heat in your core. Jane’s kisses are hard and demanding, and the way she whimpers into your mouth at each roll of your hips sends you careening towards the edge of pleasure.

The coil behind your navel tightens. “Jane, I think- ah- I think I’m-” You are cut off by the older woman’s lips attaching themselves to your neck, quickly finding your pulse point and sucking, hard, before biting down. 

You moan and then Jane licks at your pulse point and the coil snaps. Pure ecstasy explodes within you, your release made even sweeter by the fact that you feel Jane’s arms wrap around your torso and pull you close. You ride out the wave of pleasure on Jane’s thigh, milking her leg with your juices, dimly aware of how Jane peppers every inch of your face with sloppy kisses as you come down from your high. You collapse on top of her, the aftershocks of your orgasm still running through you. 

You peer up at Jane through your lashes. She is looking down at you, barely a sliver of sapphire visible in her eyes as her pupils dilate. Her cheeks are flushed and you can feel her chest heave underneath you. 

Finding some strength within you, you push yourself up so that you are straddling her stomach. Your sticky center rests against her bare skin and she parts her lips, letting out a ragged breath. You push the nightgown off her shoulders and down her arms - she doesn’t protest, simply watches you curiously.

You shift down her body, your fingers finding the waistband of her drawers and dragging them down her long legs. You watch her the entire time - her face is unreadable, though you can tell from the arousal that coats her thighs that she is enjoying this immensely. You begin to unbutton the collar of your own dress, but Jane sits up and her hands swat your own away and continue the process for you. 

She seems to have regained control of the situation as she forces the dress over your head, then all but rips your chemise off your body.

“Impatient, are we?” you chuckle, then you freeze as Jane’s eyes grow dark and she glowers at you. Definitely too far. You gulp as Jane curls her hand in your hair, taking it by the fistful and pulling harshly, causing you to gasp in pain.

“Don’t think I will tolerate brattiness just because it’s you,” Jane says, her voice almost sickeningly sweet.

“Are you going to punish me?” you whisper, unable to keep a hint of excitement out of your voice.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Jane smiles as you whimper and she places her hands on your waist, bending you to her will. “Over my lap, girl.”

You oblige, settling over Jane’s legs then sticking your ass into the air, heart pounding as you realize what is to come. Jane pulls your drawers down your legs, exposing your soft flesh, then brings a cool hand to one of your butt cheeks, caressing it almost lovingly, giving it a soft, gentle squeeze.

The hand retracts and then, quite suddenly, comes down on your cheek with full force. You yelp at the sting. She caresses the area once more, her soft, barely-there touch a delicious contrast to the painful warmth that remains after the slap. Then she retracts her hand once more and you tense as it comes down again, with even more force than the first time. The smack echoes through the room and you let out a strangled groan, but you are too far gone to care whether anyone else in the house can hear you.

You sniffle as tears begin to collect in your eyes. Jane spanks you again, and again, and you can feel your arousal building with each harsh slap, leaking out of your core and dripping down onto Jane’s thighs. Tears stream down your cheeks at what must be tenth or so smack, and then you hear Jane whispering praises into your ear as she strokes your sore flesh.

“Oh, darling, you’re dripping,” Jane coos sweetly. Her fingers dance over your inner thighs and you push your hips back in pure desperation.

“Jane, please” you whimper, and Jane removes her hand.

“When I’m punishing you, it’s mistress,” she says firmly, and you moan at her commanding tone.

“Please, mistress, I need you.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” You can almost hear the smirk in Jane’s voice as she swipes a finger through your folds, gathering your wetness. She begins drawing languid circles over your clit. You are still sensitive from your first orgasm, and each direct touch to the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body. 

She circles your entrance with two fingers, chuckling as you let out a strangled noise and shimmy your hips, begging her to enter you. The fingers dip into your core, just an inch or so, then pull out. 

“Mis- ah-” You cry out as the fingers plunge forcefully into your hole. Jane doesn’t give you time to adjust - rather, she begins a brutal pace, stretching you out with every thrust of her hand. She curls her fingers, immediately finding the sweet spot inside of you that has you seeing stars - she seems awfully skilled and you wonder, briefly, if she has done this with other maids before you - but then her fingers reach deeper and any form of rational thought or worry is quickly forgotten. 

The wet noises coming from her ministrations inside of you are obscene - these, coupled with the heavy breaths you can hear Jane take above you, send you barreling towards your release. 

“Do you want to come, little dove?” Jane’s tone is sweet and her voice gentle, but there is a dominant edge hidden in her words - you rock your hips up into her hand in response, mewling as her fingers slow their pace while she waits for a verbal response. 

“P-please, mistress,” you manage to stutter out, your core tightening. 

“Very well. You may,” Jane says airily, her fingers speeding up their pace once more as her thumb brushes against your clit. Your moans increase in both volume and vulgarity and you cry out as your second orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. You screw your eyes shut, sinful noises falling out from between your parted lips as you clench around her fingers.

It takes you a few moments before your pleasure evens out and you are able to think clearly again. Jane pulls her fingers out of your swollen pussy and gently brushes your hair off your sweaty forehead. You shift so that you are no longer lying across Jane’s lap - you sit up to face her.

“Aren’t you a noisy one?” Jane taunts, a predatory smirk spreading across her face. “I wonder how I’ll explain those heavenly moans to Edward, hmm? Or perhaps I should have you explain them yourself?”

Your face turns scarlet and your breathing stutters. You are embarrassed and a little afraid, both at being found by Mr. Murdstone and at somehow disappointing your mistress (your lover? What exactly were you to Jane now?). 

You duck your head, unable to meet Jane’s gaze, but then you feel long, slim fingers take hold of your chin and force you to look up. There’s a seductive glint in Jane’s eyes and she holds her own chin high as she tilts your face once to each side, as if appraising you. 

“Good thing Edward isn’t home right now,” she murmurs as she leans in, her breath ghosting over your face as her lips stop inches away from yours. The close proximity makes you dizzy - you feel you will go delirious with desire if she doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, her lips bypass yours - she plants a trail of wet kisses down the column of your throat until she reaches your sternum, just below where the collar of your dress usually begins. She nips at the skin there, sending a delicious chill down your spine, then begins to suck fervently. 

“Let me show you who you belong to,” she whispers against the bruising flesh.

Jane pulls back and your eyes travel down her body. Her cunt is glistening with arousal - heat pools at the apex of your thighs, and you are overcome with the need to please her. 

“See something you like?” A low, sultry voice spurs you into action. You press a searing kiss to Jane’s lips before kissing your way down her body until you reach her nipples. Your tongue darts out, soothing over the hardened bud and drawing a gasp from Jane’s throat. You look up through your lashes, watching how she leans back against the pillows, her lips parting to let out shaky breaths as your tongue swirls around her nipple.

“Can you- can you bite it?” she rasps out and you do as you’re told - she makes a soft, strangled noise and arches her back off the bed. You switch sides, giving her other nipple the same attention - soon, Jane is squirming underneath you.

Deciding enough is enough, you kiss your way down her stomach - it is soft and heavenly and you spend longer than necessary pressing your lips to every inch of skin you can reach, until Jane decides she cannot wait any longer and grips you by the hair, pulling you off of her. 

“Lay back,” she instructs, her tone so authoritative that you don’t dare argue. You do as you’re told, settling on your back and watching curiously as Jane swings one leg over your body, positioning herself above you. She scoots up until her pussy is in line with your face - sturdy thighs encase your head, boxing you in. Her hands grip the headboard tightly, steadying herself as she lowers herself onto your face.

You freeze - this is a far cry from the clumsy groping you took part in as a teenager. You want to please her, but you have never done this before and you are unsure you will measure up - from the way Jane moves, she seems to have far more experience. Jane seems to notice your hesitance - you are nervous that she will be angry. Instead, you see her face soften as she looks down at you.

“Are you alright, little dove?” she coos, and you swallow thickly, searching for the right words, your pulse hammering in your throat.

“Y-yes, mistress,” you breathe out, your voice shaking slightly. “I am afraid I won’t be… adequate?” Your voice rises at the end of the sentence as if posing a question.

Jane shifts her thigh back so that she can reach down and cup your cheek. Her hand is warm and reassuring and you melt into her touch.

“Would you like to stop?” she murmurs, and you take a moment to consider. Finally, you shake your head ‘no’.

“Can I… I would like to try. Please?” You bite your lip and Jane smiles fondly down at you.

“Very well.” Jane shifts so that she is hovering over you again. “You can place your hands here.” She taps her thigh and you reach up, wrapping your arms around her thighs - it steadies you a bit, it feels grounding and reassuring.

“Are you ready?” Jane asks.

“Yes.”

She lowers herself until her cunt is inches away from your mouth. Hesitantly, you bring your tongue to her center, licking a broad strip from her entrance to her clit. Her juices coat your tongue - they taste absolutely divine - mostly salty, a little sweet, like nothing you’ve ever tasted before. You groan against her pussy - you feel you could get drunk on the taste of her alone. The vibrations of your groan send a jolt of pleasure through Jane’s body and causes her to moan breathily in return. 

You lick a bit more firmly this time and you can feel Jane pushing herself down onto your tongue, grinding gently. Your tongue flicks at her clit and she whimpers, her grinding slowly becoming more insistent. You can hardly breathe and your jaw is beginning to cramp - you wonder if you might suffocate, but think there would be no better way to go than buried between Jane Murdstone’s thighs.

You alternate between running your tongue through her folds and sucking her swollen bundle of nerves. Her pelvis rocks against your face, insistently guiding your tongue to where she needs you the most.

“Doing- so- well,” she praises as she grinds her hips down particularly hard and your tongue slips into her entrance slightly, causing her to stifle a moan. 

Taking note of her reaction, you stick your tongue in her entrance, as far as you can reach - you feel her walls flutter around it, and the sensation causes your own walls to clench around nothing, your core pulsing and throbbing with desire for the woman above you.

A few thrusts of your tongue have Jane’s thighs tightening around your ears, her muscles rippling underneath your hands. You hold her firmly in place as her hips lose their rhythm, bucking erratically onto your face.

“Right th-there,” she pants, whimpering as your nose brushes against her clit. You think she may come soon, and you are right - she lets out a soft cry, her thighs trembling around your head as her arousal leaks out of her core in a steady stream. You catch it on your tongue and swallow greedily. You cannot see her face from this angle - she has thrown her head back - but you wish you could. Perhaps next time.

Once she stills above you, her legs loosening their hold on your head, you lap up the remaining evidence of her orgasm, cleaning her essence from her thighs. She jumps slightly as your tongue brushes against her sensitive clit - you squeeze her thighs in reassurance.

Jane swings her leg back around and sinks down next to you. Her expression is nothing short of pure bliss - her eyes are heavy-lidded, her skin beautifully flushed and sheening with a thin layer of sweat, her lips parted to let out heavy breaths. Her chest rises and falls erratically and she regards you with those icy irises, a mixture of contentment and smugness swirling deep within her pupils.

“Sweet girl.” Her voice is raspy and low and if you weren’t so spent already, it would have you ready again within seconds. She cups your cheek, her thumb tracing along your lower lip. You chase her thumb with your lips, sucking it briefly into your mouth, your eyes never leaving hers, which widen slightly at your boldness.

“Cheeky,” she comments, lips curving up into an approving smirk.

The two of you lie together for quite some time, bare legs intertwined, as Jane’s breathing evens out. The room is growing darker and you realize with a heavy heart that you must soon leave her - if you don’t show up for supper, the others will begin to ask questions.

You relay your worries to Jane, who nods in understanding and allows you to extricate your limbs from her own. You wince at the leftover stickiness between your legs - Jane notices and tells you to stay put as she gets up to grab a clean rag and wets it in the basin in the corner of her room. 

“Spread your legs," she murmurs impatiently as you simply gawk at her. You do as you’re told and she brings the cloth to your inner thighs, gently wiping away the remnants of your arousal.

“Thank you,” you whisper - you had never pegged Jane for a gentle lover, and maybe she isn’t entirely, but even this level of care is a completely new side to her that you hadn’t seen before.

Dressing quickly, you allow Jane to - wordlessly - help you with your hair. It takes twice as long this way - she is clumsy with the pins, focusing more on running her hands through the soft curls and pressing her nose to your scalp - but eventually you look acceptable and you make to leave - you will be late for supper, but you don’t care, not when you’ve spent all afternoon with Jane. You curtsey as you reach the door.

Jane snorts. “There’s no need for such formalities when we’re alone,” she chuckles. You blush and nod, unsure what to say. “Have Emily leave my supper at the door. Will you come back tonight?”

“Yes, mil- Jane. If it pleases you.”

“It pleases me,” she teases, her voice lighter than you’ve heard it since the beginning of her illness.

x

one more part to go!

tags: @dianneking @yourlocaldisneyvillain @anti-bright-places @mrs-hilmarson @rainbow-hedgehog @s-c-rambledegggs @sapphicsbeloved @eveymay @scream-queenlover @orchidsshine

[moon-simmers]

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH

As every year this is a good date to remember the daily struggle for the rights of the LBGT+ community. It is also a time to learn about the people who made it possible for us to identify ourselves as who we are today without fear of reprisals or being punished by the law. This month I got involved in the history of Argentina and its different movements for the fight for rights through the 20th century. Here I come to share some important figures, some more known than others, but obviously there are a lot that I have left out of this publication.

Sara Facio (1932-2024) & Maria Elena Walsh (1930-2011)

A couple of intellectual artists that would need a separate publication to go deeper into the subject. Sara is one of the greatest Latin American photographers who with her camera contributed to the creation of the most outstanding photographic heritage of the country. Maria Elena is a writer, singer and composer whose children's songs resonate to this day because they are much more profound than they seem and are still relevant today.

Salvadora Medina Onrubia (1894-1972)

She was a writer, militant anarchist, single mother and the first woman to run a newspaper in the country. She was the first Argentinean woman to dare to write about double sinners, lesbians and adulteresses. One of her most valued plays was Las descentradas, premiered in 1929. There, Salvadora honors her own contradictions, narrating women who question monogamous structures, marriage and the traditional family.

Malva Solis (1920-2015)

She was a transvestite writer who lived for 95 years when the life expectancy of this community in the country was under 40 years old. In 1951 founded the first trans organization on record, Maricas Unidas Argentinas. She has the oldest series of trans photographs in the country, dating from 1940 to 1980, when simply having those photographs at home was cause for being arrested. There is a documentary based on the photographs and conversations with her at her home called "Con Nombre de flor".

Jorge Horacio Ballve Piñero (1920-?)

Piñero was a young man from a well-to-do family of the Buenos Aires society at the beginning of the century. Together with his best friend Adolfo and Blanca, he organized gatherings in his apartment in Recoleta, and was a pioneer of male erotic photography. They mixed the privileged social class with workers, dishwashers, gas station workers, sailors and cadets from the Military College. These three characters were involved in a police case involving cadets from the military college, known as the Cadet Scandal. In the police archives remain captive the photographic collection, intended for pleasure and personal aesthetic enjoyment that tragically proved key to incriminate some friends who just wanted to have fun.

Ruth Mary Kelly (1925-1994)

She was a bisexual woman, who worked as a "Wohoo Worker". Founder of Grupo Safo in 1972, the first Argentine lesbian organization, and of the Frente de Liberación Homosexual (Homosexual Liberation Front). In 1972 she wrote Memorial de los Infiernos about her experiences as a "Wohoo" worker and bisexual, persecuted by the psychiatric-prison system.

Manuel Puig (1932-1990)

He was an Argentine writer and LGBT+ activist, author of the novels Boquitas pintadas, El beso de la mujer araña (Considered one of the most recognized LGBT works in Latin America and one of the best works in Spanish of the 20th century) etc. He also fought against authoritarianism and machismo, and was one of the founders of the Homosexual Liberation Front in 1971, one of the first associations for the defense of LGBTQI+ rights.

Mariela Muñoz (1943-2017)

She was the first transsexual woman to be recognized by the state and given a female ID card on May 2, 1997. At the age of 16 she became independent, and it was then that she began caring for children, teenagers and single mothers. She cared for children who had been abandoned by their mothers, whom she loved and cared for. She raised, during her lifetime, 23 children and 30 grandchildren. In a dispute over the guardianship of 3 children in 1993, Argentina was confronted for the first time with the debate as to whether a transsexual person "could be a mother"

Carlos Jauregui (1957-1996) & Raul Soria

Carlos was a History professor and the founder of the Civil Association Gays for Civil Rights, organizer of the first Pride march in Buenos Aires and an essential figure for Argentine activism. In 1984, he broke with the schemes by appearing in the magazine Siete Días embracing the activist Raul Soria, a homosexual person assumed his sexuality in a public way for the first time. He believed that media visibility is fundamental for LGTB people. Leaving aside the fear and silence that other generations suffered for years. In 1985, Raul would present himself as the first gay candidate for congressman in the country.

Roberto Jauregui (1960-1994)

Brother of Carlos, was a journalist, actor and the first activist for the rights of people with HIV in the country. In 1989 he exposed the inequality in access to treatment at that time due to the price of medication. He played a central role in marches, actions, talks and interviews to demand human rights for people living with the virus. A well-known phrase of his is "Showing one's face is not easy in a society that discriminates, censures and separates".

Cris Miró (1965-1999)

Cris was the first visible trans people that appeared in the media and broke with the "transvestite" paradigm. A dental student, she got involved in the artistic underworld and later studied classical dance, musical comedy and acting. Her career was meteoric: the popularity of revue theater catapulted her to the small screen where she became a sought-after figure in the most popular programs. On June 23rd, a series about his life inspired by his biography was released, available on Prime Video.

Alejandro Vannelli (1948-) y Ernesto Larresse (1950-)

They were the first couple in the province of Buenos Aires to get legally married on July 30, 2010 after the Equal Marriage Law was passed. They met in 1976 because of a triple A bomb in the theater where Larresse was performing with Nacha Guevara, then he joined the cast of Vannelli. At the beginning they did not like each other because of Vanelli's appearance as a wealthy young man and Larresse was the opposite, but opposites attracted and they were a couple for 34 years.

Norma Castillo (1943-) y Ramona "Cachita" Arévalo (1943-2018)

They were the of South America's first gay marriage on April 9, 2010. Norma and Ramona were married to two Colombians, who were cousins to each other. During the dictatorship they both went into exile in Colombia and there they fell in love and lived their romance clandestinely, until Cachita separated and Norma was widowed by her husband. They lived their love freely and even opened an LGBT discotheque in Colombia. In 1998 they returned to Argentina and began to work in sexual diversity organizations.

Feliciano Centurión 1962-1996)

He was a visual artist, a Paraguayan painter professionally trained in Argentina. He grew up in a home dominated by women, where he learned to sew and crochet. Inspired by queer aesthetics and folk art, he used to incorporate household textiles and references to the natural world. She handled kitsch art and languages not considered high art with a great deal of knowledge and sensitivity.

Humberto Tortonese (1964-) , Alejandro Urdapilleta (1954-2013) & Batato Barea (1961-1991)

Batato was an actor and "literary transvestite clown" as he called himself, one of the most important personalities of the underground theater movement of the post-dictatorship years. Together with Alejandro Urdapilleta and Humberto Tortonese, revolutionized the underground scene of the 80's - in places like the Parakultural. They disguised themselves, wore make-up and improvised delirious and strident scenes for the decade.

Sandra Mihanovich & Celeste Carballo

Sandra and Celeste are two singers who were visibly lesbians during the 80s and early 90s. Together they released the albums "Somos mucho mas que dos" and "Mujer contra mujer" which became a symbol of belonging for the whole LGBTQ arc in our country. They managed to be part of the rock scene, an area historically dominated by men. Sandra among all her songs is "Soy lo que soy" released in 1984 composed by Henry Jerman.

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I love them and wish them all the happiness in the world