moritat | Victorian weenie au

Sssh. Vase now, no dick-sucking

Her smile falters a tad, but he can't very well see that from his place behind. Maybe the silhouette of her lashes lowering in remembered submission. "You are not incorrect. The one who shaped it could brag of beautiful taste."

Some of those beautiful objects he'd left in his escape should be burnt, if she were the burning type, or could bring herself to destroy art.

They pass into a long hall fitted with half-crescent tables between every closed door. The vase they seek sits empty on one such table, next to a door that is very much open. Paloma introduces the flowers to their new home, hefts it, and sees that it's absent a necessity: water!

"Ah!! So sorry, they will not remain dry. Let us find them what they need." The impropriety of a man on her heels, into her private quarters, does not sink in right away. She's already traipsed in.

Jekyll follows, until a few steps into the room, where he realises this must be her bedroom. And promptly takes a few steps backwards to stand outside the door, heart all aflutter, cheeks very much red.

"When they do begin to wilt, they would make a fine potpourri, I would imagine!" This he calls out from the hall, so that it will reach her.

As she plants her grip over the tap in her washroom, that word mystifies Paloma enough to give pause. "A, a potpourri? What is ...?"

A light twist does nothing. Did the handle not turn far enough? It's been such a short while since its last use, surely-- no, nothing's coming out. A tiny droplet forms on the rim of the tap's spout, but that's all.

"Drat!! No!" What comes after is too rude for English. He better investigate.

"Dried petals, for giving their perfume to a space." But those sounds throw him.

"What is it...?" Ahh, should he go in? No he shouldn't! But- he should help her. There's a long moment of debate, but finally, he rushes in, trying to forsake the bedroom entirely. If he just goes right to the washroom it's fine right?! Nothing against propriety!!

She cuts off her own stream of hissed curses, Spanish condemnations of the tap's parentage and any and all future tap spawn. At least she appears faintly embarrassed by her ugly language when he enters.

Stuttering initially, Paloma gestures in helplessness. "The water does not ...!!" Listen here, she needs that for washing off blood, it can't just not pour!? About to continue complaining in a lower tone of voice, paying more attention to their surroundings clues her in to footsteps down the hall.

They cannot find Henry in this place, she knows at once, or he may burst into flame and she'd need to exercise that awful influence upon them and, and, and!! Her lips clamp shut. She darts to the door and shuts it as noiselessly as possible, pressing against it heavily to listen.

"Why not then--" But he's cutoff from proposing an alternative when she suddenly closes the door.

"Ah-- what is it? Is everything alright?"

Lightning-fast, she whips around to press a finger over her lips, and returns to her listening post.

Fortune be not with these two. No less than three different voices sound off around the open door to her quarters. Confident nobody is within, the servants hover and exchange local gossip at a downright slothful pace. Moving on doesn't occur to them.

Paloma backs away from the door, rising onto her toes to carry a whisper. "Better you are not seen here." Gee. Brought their lips terribly close, didn't she.

His cheeks flush, his heart pounds...his dick swells. Although he tries to fight the urge to kiss her all the more. He must try. But it's terribly difficult. Who's out there - her servants? Oh no...this could take a while. Locked in a washroom together.

No, he can't stop himself. It's a valiant effort, but it all flies out the window when he closes that small gap between them by pulling her toward him. How long he's been holding it back is evident, it's a kiss worth no less than a dozen.

At least he remembers not to make a noise. Lest they be caught locking lips.

That dizzy and dizzying look to him is a recognizable one, but were she not searching for it Paloma would've rocked onto her heels. Kept distance and minded propriety more.

She has not and will not. Suspension off-balance satisfies her a deal more than the dry patch they've done without kissing. Hyde's does not figure in. Gasping foolishly, her hands behind his neck urge him closer, closer. 'Yes' and 'please' are the two things she says in a whisper almost nonexistent.

He doesn't dare to say anything at all, not only for the fear of one of the people in the other room hearing it, but perhaps more importantly, for preoccupation. The more pressing matter is the need to kiss Paloma and to have her in his arms. Because for all that he's nasty and sexstarved he's also a sentimental weenie. Holding her tight against himself is just as important. It isn't meant to be sexual at all, but his boner might ruin that a little.

Either he's got the self-control of an adolescent boy or he's that happy to see-- er, hold her. Paloma likes the second option better.

They hadn't been up to anything suspicious until real danger of people catching them at it cropped up. That coaxes a breathy laugh out against his mouth, not a shove. They're home, why should they separate? A flash of glee at their-- well-- their preoccupation leads her to instigation. Trouble-making that starts with teeth in his lower lip and the slide of her hips.

It's a thought that occurs to him as well, that the fear of being caught is so clearly exciting, that ultimately it pushed him to take that step over into impropriety. But he doesn't want to consider what it could say about him.

And once he starts to give himself over to such things, he can't only go halfway, it's all or nothing. So he doesn't stop himself from laying a hand on her waist, or letting it travel further, seeking out the end of her skirt to slip under and onto her thigh, nor does he stop his hips from pressing back against hers. It's a good thing too that her mouth muffles his reaction to her bite, or they really might be heard.

He spends ages going about the business of a hand under her skirt, but that's okay, they're busying themselves in the meanwhile. Paloma has entirely too much fun confusing blood-hunger for something sexual, so easy when they're interchangeable.

Laughter from outside the quarters. Her mouth slices left off of his, partly open but fang-free for now, and she listens keenly. Equally keen hands slip underneath his waistcoat in a blind hunt for hooks, buttons, whatever keeps his trousers up!!

Buttons and suspenders are what she'll find. Meanwhile he realises the curse of the fashion of the time. After getting past the mass of skirts, there's still bloomers to contend with, when all he wants is uninterrupted thigh. And maybe a handful of ass. But no they have to make that difficult. Still, he slips his hand under the elastic cuff, if only to spite these damn clothes!!

But the absence of her teeth pushes him to finally speak, as low as he can manage, "Did you need to drink...?"

Pooh pooh to the double trouble of suspenders AND buttons. She's let blood magic alter, no, add onto her appetite, meaning frustration like any other enterprising lover. Paloma quite forgets he'll have his own legion of buttons to contend with.

At least the bloomers won't resist. Haphazardly working on his trousers while insistently stealing kisses again and again, "No, no! Just this. Please."

Well, it isn't any trouble to accommodate that. At least once he gets his hand into her bloomers and slid up her thigh, he has an easier task than she. If he ignores properly undressing her for now. No one can ever say Henry Jekyll is a selfish lover...!! At least there's that to keep his good name, right?

"I swear I didn't come here with this in mind...!" Just so she knows. He wasn't being a randy bastard when he knocked on her door... Even if right now it's gotten the better of him.

What is it about the touch of a glove rather than bare skin on skin! She sucks in air too sharp, too noisily, and her legs quiver. Some miracle releases the last bit holding the trousers aloft. Now just their hips pressing roughly together keep them from sliding any.

Still more to unbutton. And she's less than perfectly deft with his hand between her thighs. "I know, I know. Neither did I ...!" These awful underthings.

Good, as long as she knows he isn't just a nasty man who came calling for sex. This wasn't a bootycall. Even with his fingers at work between her thighs there's still more to do, though. Like the matter of her dress and corset. Not that he wouldn't find mostly clothed sex exciting too... Still, his free hand finds the buttons down her back and takes only enough care not to rip it.

That doesn't mean it's treated delicately, though. All the less so for every kiss he steals, too. But finally it reaches down to her waist without a single button popping off. With great reluctance he pulls his hand out from under her skirt, only to be able to help it off. To make fingering her easier in the long-run. Priorities.

Why does it apparently always turn into desperate lovemaking when he follows her up a flight of stairs??

The dress, being a pretty thing, would upset her if harmed. Look at what happened to Hyde when he tore her skirts!

Although it's not as if he hasn't sufficiently distracted her during the unbuttoning ordeal, and the protest she allows herself at his withdrawal comes out a heady, short whine. Paloma reluctantly leaves off him to assist with dress removal. The cerulean piece pools on the washroom floor beside her boot heels, and she stands there otherwise in corset, bloomers, and stockings.

"I hate these," she informs him, returning fast to HIS underclothes' fastenings. Paloma ducks away from kisses and squirms from any questing fingers, so determined is she to solve the problem.

At first he does try to kiss and to touch her...until it's clear she's too preoccupied. Then he turns his efforts instead to helping, after all, he knows the workings of his own underclothes better.

Of course, once he's properly opened his underpants...the thought of how they'll be quiet enough not to be caught sinks in. Heavy petting is one thing, outright intercourse another. Although it's at once exciting as well...

Maybe he had better just...get down on his knees, hands planted on her hips, to stick his face between her legs!! More importantly between the slit in her bloomers. A shameful act to some, but Henry Jekyll goes down. Anatomical research might not be his thing, but still, as a doctor he knows his stuff, can't put that knowledge to waste. Wow this is embarrassing. That doesn't mean he's even thinking of backing down though. No, he's setting that tongue to work.

Some who boast familiarity with the bone structure of a Tyrannosaurus would identify some relation to its arms and what Paloma does with hers. Shock! Less appall. The great service he's performing is too wonderful to complain about.

Her legs go stiff as trees and root to the washroom floor; she knots fingers a little ungently through his hair. Distant recall of the first and only time a man's tongue ever stroked her flits in and out of her mind, gone because that was years gone and Henry is the one who's with her now.

"Aaaah," she blurts. Look, she's trying hard to keep her mouth shut, but it's haaard!!

He looks up, panic stricken, as if he would have expected anything else. Did anyone hear that? And if they did, will they come looking? Surely they'll just assume it's Paloma taking a bath! On her own! Right? Wide eyes wordlessly tell her to keep quiet, at least as best she can, implore her.

And then he ducks back down, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. But those fingers in his hair prompt him to continue without having to be told. It's reward enough to have her pull on it like that. Plenty satisfying in its own way. And a good way to determine how he's doing, what angle or speed to keep at, and as a scientist it's an interesting experiment for him! Something to remember for another time.

Paloma returns his panic in equal measure, but the sound of gossip hasn't missed a beat. Safer to clap a hand over her mouth to muffle the reedy gasps coming out all on their own.

It's too good, he's too good to her, her knees buckle and knock together just when it feels like he's getting to the best part of it. She lurches backward and onto her arse, shivering. Her thighs shake even though there was no finish.

"Hhhhahh, hahh, Harry," her turn to implore. She begs with her eyes, too.

Oh- "Are you alright?" He whispers, bending down onto his hands and knees above her. ...he could listen to what she has to say, or he could steal her lips with more kisses, and an ever busy hand.

That's as good as listening.

And with his multitasking kisses and finger-fucking a recent divorcée, and the near miss of servants catching them, that ends things. She quietly loses it. As in she breaks off from the sloppy kiss and down, upper shoulders thumping wood, her spine arches and seizes up.

Clapping over her mouth is all that spares them an awkward conversation about why Miss Vasquez is coming with her doctor's fingers jammed up in her.

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