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Hardly!

[He straightens immediately, offering her the corset with one hand, then working at the buttons of his shirt with the other.]

Though I take it your previous comment was more a suggestion of intention rather than a complaint? Hmm?

[ how dare he tease her. shuffles the dress carefully to drape over one arm so she can receive the corset. instinctively, she tests the material between her finger and thumb.

loftily, ] I have no idea what you speak about.

[He teases because he loves you, Sprezzatura.]

No? Then perhaps I am mistaken.

[He knows he isn't.

But anyhow! Time to undress. She is, of course, free to watch -- off goes the shirt, revealing an ugly bruise at his ribs, strangely-shaped. Blue and green-ish. But he disappears once more into the closet for the final time (for now), if only to gather up a white, voluminous petticoat.]

I am pure as driven snow.

[ of course she watches. of course. having Sholmes undress in front of her is a very simple pleasure; she likes his body, you see, even when it bears the marks of her own unkindness.

the oni's unkindness.

slowly, she sinks onto the bed and quietude, watching without commentary, but her gaze does sit on the bruising. ]

Precisely how... thorough are your disguises, Herlock?

[Out he comes, with a petticoat swinging at his hips and the rest of him utterly topless. Obviously, this will be a process, but it will be a fun one, he thinks. It's always a fun one, and to share the experience with her makes it all the more engaging.

He sits beside her, turning at an angle to imply that she might put the corset around him. Sholmes is aware of her gaze on the bruising, but perhaps the timing to broach that subject is particularly delicate right now. It can wait.]

It depends on the situation, of course. But I always do my best to be as precise and thorough as possible. The persona is reliant upon the disguise, and vice-versa. One cannot perform as well without the other.

However, my choices are rather limited in this prison. The costume shop is a sorry replacement for disguises of actual quality.

[ she's simply going to ignore the warm little mote in her stomach as she sets the dress aside and unlaces the corset. studiously.

the sound of the laces tugging loose are the only sound, at first, besides Sprezzatura's own breathing. then he'll feel her arms come close around him from behind as she brings the fabric around and tucks it up against his body.

she's close enough to kiss the slope of his shoulder. she does. ]

May I do your makeup, then?

[As much as this is a familiar routine for him, there is a novelty behind letting someone else lace up his corset. (Someone who isn't little Iris standing on a stool to reach, of course.) Her breathing is comforting alone, intimate; then the feeling of fabric wrapping around his body. He straightens instinctively.

The kiss... He cannot help but tilt his head in that direction, fond. Tries to glance at her from over his shoulder, lips curved into a smile.]

Certainly. Ms Adler deserves a woman's touch.

I can provide that.

[ she places another kiss, lingering. an unspoken apology, at the very least.

methodically beginning to pull the corset laces through. if she pauses now and then to trace the edge of a bruise, she hopes he won't comment upon it. ]

You've stockings, too? Lady cannot go bare-legged.

[He won't comment on it; maybe that's a job for Ms Adler at a later time. But he does note it, as he is wont to do. Herlock Sholmes let so very little slip past his attentions, especially when that one particular spot is sore with the faintest application of pressure.]

Mm, yes. I do. [Cannot go bare-legged, especially with a man's legs! Though they will be mostly hidden beneath the dress.

He shifts a little, tries to toe out a bundle of clothing from beneath his bed. Out edges a sheer, ivory-toned material: a delicate pair of stockings. He should treat them better, really. But they're in decent shape.]

She likes these.

[ oh, Mammon help her, but she does like a pale stocking. though... on the floor? under the bed? even she has to raise a brow at that, and Sprezzatura leaves his corset half-strung as she bends down to fetch them, laying them across her lap. she tests their feel beneath her fingers. ]

And you'll let me put these on.

[His mind flitters and flutters from one place to the next on a whim. It’s a miracle he even remembered where they were in the first place.]

I would much rather prefer if you did.

[He sticks a leg out, petticoat rucking at his knee, as if to highlight this fact.]

[ oh god she's not going to survive ]

Let me finish lacing you, first.

[ with a warm palm against his back. straighten up again? ]

[good 8)

-! He straightens, and also sucks in a little breath. Not as needed with this corset, but when you come from the Victorian era, you get used to a certain routine.]

Take your time, my dear.

[ that breath is familiarity; he has done this enough for these things to become habit. Sprezzatura shifts slightly where she sits, but shortly her hands move and her eyes follow the laces as she tightens them. she does take her time.

at the end, he will feel the warmth of her cheek as she lays it against the slope of his shoulder blade.

this is quite a lot to indulge her in, so soon after... ]

Finished. [ a murmur. she ties the bow and slides her arms around his middle, an embrace from behind ] Perfectly huggable waist.

[Plenty of times — with Mikotoba, who did so with hesitation at first, and then with an automaticness of accepted routine years later. Or Iris, who is always excited to do so, who laces him up rather tightly with nimble fingers and tells him not to complain.

But with Sprezzatura? There is a distinct difference of warmth, intimacy, that he had not shared with either. A different brand of love.

Her hug is bracing, and he lifts on of her hands to bring it to his lips with a kiss.]

Mm, more huggable than before, is it? Thank you.

Cinched. This is word I am looking for.

[ turns her fingers into his kiss, and like that, she traces the curve of his lip. ]

May I kneel?

[ since when does Sprezzatura utter "may I"s? ]

[When, indeed. Now that is a rarity, though he assumes the sudden bout of asking for permission may be rooted in a desire to apologize for Svetka, and all that entailed from it.

Unnecessary, in the end. But of course he will not deny her-]

You may. You hardly need to ask, my dear.

[ to apologize for Svetka, yes. to apologize for the capricious nature of her moods. to express the rare need to give herself over to someone completely, indulgently, and place herself in a position of utter giving. she wants to kneel for him where no one else will ever see, and do something tender and intimate for him.

she smooths her palms flat against his corseted stomach, then around to his sides, then up his sides and around even further to caress the bruises dotting his back. a slow inhale precedes her slipping from the bed; she sinks down slowly before him, never breaking eye contact, her hands trailing down his petticoat. ]

[No questioning that this will be a tender and intimate process, the way she touches him, the way she moves around him; his eyes never leave her face, and hers never leave his. It's almost a shame that her new position, kneeling just before him, creates even the slightest more distance between them -- he enjoys her warmth lingering nearby.

Slowly, and slightly, he lifts one leg at the knee, the hem of his petticoat rising in tandem.]

[ her heart starts hammering out of control

tailfwip ]

[ for the love of god stop being horny.

she reaches for a stocking, drapes it over her palm as she brings it to her lap. she opens it and begins rucking it in her fingers, methodical, taking her time (she has to—her claws would tear them otherwise). not until she has to lift his foot does she look away, and only then to bring it up by the back of his ankle. she hooks her fingers around and sets it in her lap.

as she works the toe of the stocking over his foot, she finds herself humming quietly, beneath her breath. ]

[Sholmes is doing her a favor, not remarking on those little tells that are not so little for a detective such as himself. Instead, he just smiles, warm and eyes bright, and lets her take her time.

Over the foot it goes, inching over the ankle.]

Shall I lift my petticoat for you?

[Maybe he teases a little.]

Yes.

[ literally zero hesitation. moving the fabric up past his heel, this tremendous slowness to it. she curves her palm to the back of his ankle and rubs, indulgently ]

Please.

[Oh, that feels nice. The sinuous pressure and the warmth of her hand straddle the line between sensuous and calming.

"Please", even. Sholmes lifts his petticoat up accordingly, slowly, just granting her enough leeway to slide the stocking up inch by inch at her own pace.]

You spoil a girl, my dear.

I try.

[ she swallows visibly before saying this. she does try, Herlock. she tries so hard. her hands form to the shape of his calf and then his thigh as she moves the fabric up, smoothing it around him. the petticoat brushes against the her skin, it hints at where her touch lies beneath. and when she brings her hands away again, it's by gliding them all the way back down, until she can gently set his foot back on the floor. on to the other, the same deliberate process. ]

Do you need garters?

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