(no subject)

[andhiswife]

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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[andhiswife]

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."

[very_sharpe]

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.

[andhiswife]

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."

[very_sharpe]

"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.

[andhiswife]

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.