andhiswife | (no subject)

Greta triple-checks her reflection, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she bites back a nervous grin. Krem has finished her bespoke suit, which turned out to be a little more than just a suit in the end. There are two blouses, one with looser sleeves that pairs well with just a waistcoat, and one for wearing beneath a jacket. This is her first time trying any of it on at home, and she turns, craning her neck to make sure everything is as it should be without Nina or Krem there to make minor adjustments.

She looks good -- or she thinks she does. It's a sentiment that's already been echoed by several other parties (Krem and Nina have been downright effusive), so she's inclined to believe it. It's just that... well, this isn't entirely about her own opinion. It's about whether Thomas thinks she's possessed.

That's partly why she's started with just the waistcoat. The blouse itself, with its wide sleeves that gather at the wrists, isn't so different from the others she already has hanging in their closet. She can sort of... ease him into it.

As if there's any 'easing into' the sight of her in trousers.

It may or may not be helping that she's felt compelled to send a steady stream of vague, preparatory warnings through the locked bathroom door as she readies herself -- a lot of 'it's very different's and 'sort of a lark, really's and 'you might think it's... odd's and so on, until she's run out of both warnings and excuses to dally.

Still, she hesitates with her hand on the doorknob. "You have to promise not to laugh at me," she says, a faint quaver in her voice, as if he hasn't already promised twice.

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"It will be, and maybe it will feel different, but we'll still have our fun."

Thomas won't lie, he thinks there's something terribly romantic looking about a gown sweeping around a dance floor, but Greta looks wonderful in her suit and he's hardly going to complain about the change.

"Of course I don't mind, darling. I may be Victorian, but I'm not a complete monster." And he doesn't mind other people seeing Greta in her suit: he's not the sort of man to feel jealous over something like that. He flashes a teasing little smile. "You are still quite covered, even if there's more... outlines."

It wasn't an especially serious concern, and she snorts at his 'I may be Victorian, but...' line. "Outlines," she repeats in a scandalous undertone, reaching out to toy with his collar, then lifting her hand slightly to brush her fingers along the line of his jaw -- just because she can, because he's here and hers and being far more wonderful about all this than she'd let herself hope. "Whatever will the neighbors say?"

Truthfully, she's not worried about anyone else's opinion. Nina's enthusiasm and Krem's professionalism had thoroughly buried the fear that this might be shocking by Darrow's standards. It will be a surprise to people who know her well enough to know how atypical a choice it is for her, but she can't imagine there's going to be much pearl-clutching. Sweeney might have some exasperating things to say, but that will probably be the most she suffers.

Thomas tries, very hard, to suppress a smile at Greta's scandalous tone. Still, an adoring look shines in his eyes as she adjusts his collar, as she brushes her fingers along his jaw. "Well, given our daughter and our dogs, and the fact that you've been living with me, unwed, I think the neighbors will hardly even notice if you start wearing pants," he quips. "Our household is already in ruin."

He breaks into a smile and shakes his head. "Were you really very worried about what I'd think?"

"That's true," she says with a rueful sigh, letting her hand drop to his shoulder. "I'm a fallen woman. I can't possibly disgrace myself more than I have already."

She ducks her head at his question, though with the way she's standing over him, that hardly hides her embarrassed flush. Obviously she needn't have worried, but she also doesn't know how she could have avoided it. He's still so proper, at least in some respects. While she's successfully loosened him up on certain fronts, this is the first time she's really challenged the implicit dress code they both grew up with.

"A little," she admits. "It's... a rather dramatic departure from the usual. And there wouldn't have been much fun in wearing it out if you didn't like it." It might be different if she was simply buying a pair of jeans, but this is formal wear, meant for a party. And if she's not turning her date's head at least a little, why go to the extra effort of dressing up at all?

"It is dramatic," he agrees, giving her that. He reaches to take one of Greta's hands, giving it a gentle squeeze. "And, honestly, if you'd caught me when I first arrived, I might have been a little-- I won't say put off. I'd like to give myself a hint of credit for being open-minded. But I might not have taken it in quite this kind of stride."

He lifts Greta's hand and presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles. "But I always did fancy myself of grand futures and forward momentum. I like to think I could handle the idea of a woman in trousers. Scandalous or otherwise."

Darrow's fashion had certainly thrown him for a loop when he arrived, but he's been here for quite a while now, and it's become background. This isn't the same thing, of course: this is formal wear, and it does seem very daring to him. But also striking, dashing. Remarkable.

"You pull it off very well, darling. And I think you should absolutely give Saoirse a little fashion show tomorrow. I think she'll be tickled."

She curls her fingers around his palm, still a bit sheepish, but not so much that she can't meet his gaze. And he makes a fair point; it took her this long to finally give trousers a shot, but Thomas has had even longer to soak in Darrow's mores and get over whatever sartorial hang-ups he might have brought with him. Of course he'd be able to roll with the idea now, even if it would have been a taller order a few years ago.

"And now you've got more than just the idea of it," she says with a wry smile, squeezing his hand in silent thanks.

The prospect of showing Thomas had so preoccupied her that she hadn't given much thought to showing Saoirse, and her smile widens at the thought of how she might respond. "She might decide she wants a suit, too, you do realize," she warns him. "We'll be beating down Krem's door."

"I'm almost absolutely certain she'll want one. She adores you, you know, and if she has an excuse to dress like you do, I think she'll leap on it." Saoirse likes to dress up nicely anyway, when she is in the mood, and a little suit sounds right up her alley. Thomas smiles and squeezes Greta's hand again.

"Then I suppose I will be making nice with Krem and doing him whatever favors he asks for, to get Saoirse a suit of her own."

A child's suit would need to be bespoke, he thinks. She grows too fast and besides, he doesn't know if they'd even be able to find a little suit in her size to be tailored in the first place. But Thomas doesn't mind the prospect of paying for it. Maybe he does spoil her, a little.

"Maybe we could come up with a payment plan that includes baked goods," she muses. "Or I could model for him. Put some of that Bake-Off related popularity to good use." She waggles her eyebrows, both because the thought of modeling strikes her as a bit funny, and because she refuses to take her minor celebrity status seriously. She's glad people have enjoyed the show, and was pleasantly surprised to discover she had a following, but she doesn't want it going to her head.

She takes his hand in both of hers, smiling fondly down at him. It's hard not to feel a bit giddy with how well this has gone. "Shall I go back to the first outfit again? Since that was your favorite?"

"You'd look very lovely on a billboard," he tells her, and he means it. Greta looks wonderful in her suit, and he thinks she could look good posing for pictures to show it off. He's a bit of an idea what goes into marketing by now.

"Yes, absolutely, I'd like to see the waistcoat and sleeves again. You know, maybe we could get a little suit for Saoirse and the three of us could do some photos together. Even if it's just for us."

He certainly thinks Saoirse will be enamored when she sees Greta in a suit. And, honestly, it might make for a good add: the whole family in similar styles, tailored to fit them or their personalities. It would certainly show what Krem is capable of.

Greta shakes her head fondly. "As would you, for that matter. Though I'd personally rather start a bit smaller than a billboard." A newspaper or magazine would be easier to stomach, or even a poster on the wall of his establishment. At least, in that case, someone would have to already be inside and interested before they saw it.

... Not that she's seriously considering it. Not yet, at any rate. The least she can do is wait and see if Saoirse's genuinely interested in a suit -- and if they'll subsequently have to pay for one -- before she starts thinking of haggling with her own image.

She steps back, still holding his hand, and gives him a sly look. "Would you like to see them on the hangers, first?" she asks, all innocence.

"Well, it's your outfit, darling. I think that should be up to you," he says, eyes bright as he watches her. The confidence that's blossomed in the moments between her yelling at him from behind the bathroom door to now is just remarkable. And the sly look she's giving him is the perfect bow on the entire moment.

"Do you need help in and out of anything?" he asks, attempting to mimic her innocence.

Greta makes a show of considering it before answering, "You know, I just might. This is all so new to me. It might be helpful to have you show me the ins and outs. So to speak."

Oh, god, that was shamefully transparent wordplay. She has to execute a quick turn so he won't see the ridiculous grin on her face as she steps lightly back toward the bathroom, drawing him along after her.

Thomas can't help but laugh as he gets up to follow her to the bathroom. "Clever," he teases her. He does love how easy it is to go back and forth the way they do. Lucille was never so playful, and Edith-- well. Edith isn't here anymore.

He slips into the bathroom with her, leaving the door open now that they're both in there. Thomas deftly takes the suit jacket so that Greta can slip out of it without any fuss.

"Was it?" she asks, tossing him a self-deprecating (but ultimately unrepentant) grin over her shoulder. She's not any less amused, but she'll be the first to admit that was one of the worst jokes she's ever made. Certainly not deserving of praise.

As he helps her slide out of her jacket, she dryly adds, "It's not too late to rescind your proposal, you know. I've taken very good care of the ring; you could get a substantial refund." She turns to lean back against the counter, watching him hang up the jacket. "It would be no less than I deserved, after a joke like that."

She's still grinning, though, and she reaches out in wordless invitation as soon as his hands are free.

"I don't think I should like to be a man that returns an engagement ring," he says with a little smile. "I think I can forgive you the joke to spare myself that particular humiliation."

Thomas gives her a smile and leans close to kiss her before he hangs the jacket up properly. Greta reaches out and Thomas gently catches her wrist to undo the buttons there. Even if that's not what she'd offered her hand for, it's the best way to get her out of the shirt properly. And besides, it brings him close enough for another, tender kiss.

"You can't get out of marrying me now, Miss Baker. Terrible jokes or no."

She didn't have any clear intentions when she reached for him -- nothing more specific than coaxing him over to her, that she might get her hands on him without actually having to move. It's a surprise, though not an unpleasant one, when he instead catches her wrist and undoes the buttons on the cuff of her blouse. Her pulse jumps under the light brush of his fingers, but she endeavors to keep a straight face, even as he leans in for a slow, sweet kiss.

"I suppose you'll just have to endure," she murmurs after he pulls back, her eyes taking just a moment longer than they ought to to reopen. "Because I can't promise that I'll be able to restrain myself."

She offers her other sleeve, privately wondering how well either of their resolve will hold up under the pressure of him slowly undressing her, but certainly up for the challenge.

"I think I'll manage," he teases her, as solemn as he can. Thomas gently takes her other wrist to undo the buttons there, and once her cuffs are free, he begins working his way down the buttons of the shirt itself.

"We'll have to find you a pair of suspenders, or a nice belt to go with all of this," he muses. Even if they aren't necessary to keep her trousers up, Thomas thinks if they're going to do the look, they should do it all the way.

Once he's finished with the cuffs, that leaves her hands free for whatever subtle mischief she can devise. "Hmm. Like this one, you mean?" she asks, curling two fingers between his trousers and the belt he's currently wearing. She pulls gently, encouraging him closer, then smiles, sweet and ostensibly innocent. "Perhaps we should see how it looks." Which is all the excuse (or preamble) she needs to justify slowly unbuckling it, keeping her gaze on his face as she loosens and then removes it entirely.

Thomas feels a bit of heat creeping up his cheeks, and it's less from embarrassment and more from excitement. "Yes, a bit like that. Though, I must admit, you'd look stunning in suspenders."

Sadly, he isn't wearing anyway, and, for a moment, he is very distracted as Greta slips his belt off.

"Are you proposing to keep your trousers on, darling?"

She grins, both at the look on his face as she removes his belt and the idea of suspenders. He's already told her he likes the look -- and that was after she struck him speechless -- but suggesting accessories helps to cement the fact that he's wholly on board, and not just humoring her out of kindness. "And a tie, maybe," she says. "I could always borrow one of yours." He has a variety; surely one of them would work. And the thought of wearing something of his out in public is oddly appealing.

Maybe it's because Thomas has never been possessive, and not often terribly assertive, either. Which is good: both traits would drive her up a tree if they were too liberally applied (she hasn't forgotten how she'd rolled her eyes when her husband insisted on looping his scarf around her neck, the last time she saw him). But the unanticipated (and mildly embarrassing) side effect is that when Thomas does get even the slightest bit pushy, it's ridiculously attractive. Being pinned between him and the counter, mere moments after he told her she couldn't get out of marrying him, is far more delicious than it has any right to be.

"They are a crucial part of the look, dearest," she replies, setting the belt on the counter, where neither of them can tread on it by accident. A cool draft ghosts over her skin where her shirt hangs open, prompting an agreeable little shiver. "Though if you insist..."

"You're welcome to them, of course," he says of his ties. "I could show you how to do them up." Thomas is quite adept with that, at least, both straight ties and bow ties.

He glances down at Greta, meeting her gaze briefly, but it's long enough that he feels heat creeping through him. He wets his lips and tries to hold onto a shred of his composure, but it's quickly falling apart, much like Greta's outfit. Especially if he dares to let his gaze drift lower.

Thomas clears his throat. "Ah, shall I help you out of your shirt, dear?"

'Composure' is something Thomas seems to have in almost infinite supply, which is why watching it unravel -- at least in situations such as this -- is so satisfying. The way he wets his lips sends an anticipatory shiver down her spine, where it settles with the rest of the desire pooling low in her belly. It's all she can do to maintain her own veneer of casual innocence, though the flush spreading across her cheeks and chest is giving the game away.

"Please," she says, straightening off the counter, invading his space to the point where their chests nearly touch. Then she turns around until her back is to him, ostensibly to make the task easier. Thanks to the mirror, she doesn't even have to take her eyes off him, and she watches his reflection with a threadbare pretense of only mild interest.

He carefully slides her shirt off, and he manages to do it in such a way that his fingers brush along her skin the entire way. While Greta watches him through the mirror, Thomas's eyes are on the task at hand; or rather, on the way the white fabric slides over her skin, revealing it bit by bit until he's left with the shirt in hand. He takes a deeper breath, lets it go slowly, and then leans down to brush a kiss to her bare shoulder.

"Very bold choices, madam," he murmurs against her skin. "I really can't fault you for the style and quality."

Greta all but stops breathing as his fingers brush against her skin, her shirt finally falling away. When he dips his head to kiss her shoulder, she lets out a breath, the sound a little too sharp to be a sigh and a little too soft to be a laugh.

"I learn by example," she replies, unconsciously tipping her head to one side, neck bared in implicit hope that he might direct his attentions there. Her tone is a little facetious, but not entirely teasing. If not for Thomas, she would've had far less of an idea of how a suit ought to fit. Nina and Krem had been helpful, but she's glad she wasn't flying blind otherwise. "And you're an excellent teacher."

She reaches up to slide her fingers into his hair, gently massaging his scalp. "While we're on the subject," she continues, sounding just a bit breathless, "are there any other bold choices you might demonstrate?”

Edited Date: 2019-02-13 01:55 pm (UTC)

Thomas smiles against her neck, trailing kisses until he reaches her ear. He wraps his arms around her waist, drawing Greta back against him. "Am I? Well, I'm happy to be helpful, you know. You've given me a wonderful education, you know."

He kisses the spot just beneath Greta's ear as her fingers push through his hair. God, but her touch is always wonderful. "You know, Edwardians and Victorians aren't particularly known for our bold choices," he teases her, if only because he knows she might roll her eyes. It also isn't entirely true.

His hands slide down her sides, following the curve of her waist to the swell of her hips. His fingers brush along the top of her trousers until he finds the button and zipper.

Greta leans back against him, the warmth of his arms around her an excellent antidote to the slight chill of being without a shirt. Her other hand rests against his forearm in subtle encouragement. Granted, the sleeve beneath her fingers is a mild disappointment, and part of her wonders how she might go about getting him out of his shirt. But there's also something undeniably thrilling about just letting him do as he likes, even if that means unwrapping her like a gift while he remains fully clothed.

"I do try," she says with a faint smile.

As predicted, his comment about his relative lack of boldness earns him a roll of her eyes and a soft, exasperated snort. It wasn't entirely untrue, especially when they first started seeing one another, but she likes to think he's made some strides over the past year. "My poor, wilting violet," she murmurs, even as she pointedly rocks her hips backward on wilting. "It's such a pleasure, watching you come into your own." She grins a moment later; that wasn't even deliberate, but it's too good to waste. "So to speak."

Thomas gives Greta's trousers a gentle push once he has them loose, coaxing the fabric down from her hips as she rocks back against him. His breath catches and He holds her like that, just for a moment, before he coaxes her to turn to face him. One hand catches her chin so that he can kiss her.

Rather than speaking, though, Thomas drops his hand so he can catch Greta by the waist, neatly lifting her to sit her on the edge of the counter. He fits himself neatly between her thighs and smiles against her lips.

The way his breath hitches is its own reward -- every slight falter or fracture in his composure a treat that she knows is reserved, by and large, just for her. Still, his hands are maddeningly gentle as he eases down the waistband of her trousers, and it's all she can do not to squirm, or to tell him to just yank the bloody things off before she soaks through them.

It helps when he turns her around and takes her by the chin, and she hums approvingly into the kiss. Her own hands busy themselves with untucking his shirt, and then sliding into the warm space between the fabric and his skin, pulling herself flush against him. It's wonderful while it lasts, and better still when he lifts her easily onto the counter, situating himself between her thighs.

Granted, her trousers are still mostly on (to say nothing of his), and she fleetingly recalls Sweeney's rather lewd remark about easy access. Skirts could simply be shoved aside; this will be a little more complicated. Still, she can't help but appreciate how easy it is to wrap her legs around his waist, and how little there actually is between them. "A bit less busy than skirts," she murmurs, giving him a slight squeeze with her thighs for emphasis. "I could get used to this."

"They are rather handy," he admits as Greta wraps her legs around him. He feels heat creep into his face and he can't help but laugh, breathlessly. "They leave a bit to be desired, but, we're rather creative."

Maybe it isn't as easy to manage quick intimacy when they're both wearing trousers, but having lived through a time of women wearing copious underpinnings, Thomas really doesn't think this is any worse than yards of crinoline and silk. If anything, it allows him to be much, much closer with relatively little effort at all.

And there's no hoop skirt to navigate. Or bustles.

"And pockets," he quips, a teasing smile flickering across his face.

She could point out that all of the dresses she's made since she arrived here have pockets. Goodness knows why it isn't more common; skirts give you far more potential pocket space to work with than trousers ever could. But she's far more interested in the breathless quality of his laugh, and the flush creeping across his cheeks, and what she might do to increase both of those things.

"Well," she ventures, one hand sliding up his arm and over his shoulder before curling around the back of his neck, "I don't know how much creativity is really necessary." She leans up as if to kiss him, but pauses a scant inch or so from her goal. "You might just take them off."

Then she kisses him, the tip of her tongue caressing the tender skin just inside his lower lip as her other hand works its way between them, palming him through the fabric of his own trousers.