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assorted tomfuckery. mostly just a place to keep lists and things.
inglouriously: (Melanie nip slip~)
It starts off innocently enough. They're having a companionable tea together, enjoying each others' presence over hot tea and fresh toast. Shoshanna reaches for the jar of raspberry jam the servants included on the tea tray, intending to spread it over her already buttered toast, dipping the butter knife in and pulling it back out covered in a gob of deep red preserves.

It's when the knife is on its way to the toast when it happens: a gob of jam slides off and lands on the side of her hand, in the expanse of skin between her thumb and forefinger. Scoffing, annoyed, Shoshanna wipes some of it away onto the bread, but there's still a stark red smear against her skin.

And before she can do anything about it, Kurama's reached out and snatched her wrist, bringing her hand to his mouth and cleaning away the jam with one quick swipe of his tongue. She stares at him, unable to stop the parting of her lips or the quick, quiet exhale of breath. And for a long moment they remain that way, looking at each other. Really, it's more that they're sizing each other up, like they're going to have a fight, but they both know better than that.

"I see."

"Mm."

Kurama nods. And tugs on her wrist, pulling her until she comes around to his side of the little table, perches in his lap. She's in a dress reminiscent of her own time, low, square-cut neckline with pearl buttons all down the front. It's the work of a few seconds for his long fingers to undo the top four buttons, opening her dress to expose the steady rise and fall of her chest. He falls upon her, lips hungry against her shoulder, clavicle, between her breasts. Gasping, she's gasping for air, and it's mostly because this is so unexpected. They were just having tea, and now he's swiping a thumb below the lace of her bra, inciting shivers all down her spine.

What's really unexpected, though, is that he reaches out, dips his index finger into the jam jar, and then smears it across her collarbone. The cold is a shock, but it's nothing to the warm tongue licking it away with utmost care. Shoshanna's chin tilts upward, allowing herself to relax into the sensation.

He kisses down her chest, pulling the flimsy lace of her bra completely down and away from her breast, doing such delicious things to it that she thinks she might forget how to breathe. This time she's ready for it, the long finger smearing sticky sweet jam across the stiff nipple and goosefleshed skin. She whimpers when he wraps his lips around it, suckling away every last bit; her fingers have long since wound into strands of red hair, and they don't loosen until he surfaces, giving her a wolfish grin that leaves her squirming in his lap.

"Your tea is getting cold."

"Yes, of-of course."
inglouriously: (John Simm: Oh my god that mouth)
one.

"I don't normally do this." Edgar felt it imperative to let her know this. That he wasn't one of those men, only looking for what lay between a woman's legs, beneath her clothing. In fact, quite the opposite. He never did. But now, with this heat between them, with what they had been building toward for weeks and months, here he was, breathless, heart pounding in his chest. He knew what he was doing now, at least, and for that he was grateful. But that didn't make him any less nervous that he would do something wrong, cross some social border he hadn't known existed.

"I understand." Her words were breathless, probably due to the fact that his fingers hovered mere millimeters from her bare breasts. Edgar pushed past his constant demureness to study her naked form, the generous flesh of her breasts. They were lovely, soft and beautiful, everything that breasts should be, and tentatively his fingers advanced to circle one nipple slowly. He took the time to appreciate the soft pink of it, standing out against her porcelain flesh, and he let out a quite groan as the skin tightened between his large fingers. More than anything, knowing that he was inciting such a reaction in Elsa was the most satisfying thing to him. His head dipped, the mouth that was strangely poetic on such a masculine face and large frame brushing against the velvety skin softly. His well-tailored trousers were much more snug now, for as much of a gentleman as Edgar was, he couldn't help but become aroused by this.

Their lovemaking was slow, languid, beautiful. Edgar placed a gentle kiss against Elsa's forehead when it was done, and he had rolled to the side. The bright blue eyes studied the strands of flame-red hair between his fingers for a moment, before falling shut with a heavy sigh. There was no guilt now, now remorse for what had transpired between them. It had been right.


two.

"I thought we could try out my Christmas present, non?"

His grin had merely widened, deliciously predatory, at the words. She had been waiting for him in his bedroom when he'd arrived home, dressed in nothing but a black bustier and matching panties, lacy stockings held up with a coordinating garter belt, and the handcuffs dangling from two long fingers as she stretched out on her side across his bed.

And now here she was, wrists detained above her head by the cold metal which clanged against the metal of his headboard as she squirmed beneath his lips. Her lips parted slightly but no noise but the rush of air into her lungs escaped as his tongue glided along the curve of her breast, deliciously rounded above silk and steel tightly bound against her flesh. His fingers pressed into her hipbones, delving beneath the silk of her panties without hesitation. She murmured hasty words of enouragement, not that Jean needed them.

Moments later, the scrap of black silk was being tugged aside, not down, and his lips met with her most sensitive flesh, tongue darting out to taste her, and now a cry did echo from the very depths of her throat.

"I could do anything I liked to you right now," he murmured, face still bured between Léonie's legs, his voice delicious and rough even as the words came out as a purr. "Anything at all, and you couldn't do a thing to stop me." As if she would want to. Instead, her hips jerked upward, and Jean obliged her happily, content to let her have her way.

For now.
inglouriously: (Ten: I've read this fic)
 So...I wrote a thingy. It's smutty. You have been warned.

WHO: Jean-Baptiste Girard and Léonie Lefébvre
WHAT: Doin' stuuuff.
WHERE: Jean's apartment
WHEN: Sometime in the near past, I would imagine.
WARNINGS: Sexy tiems. Also, possibly sketchy French. Sorry.

Je te veux. )