Here's my first ficlet for oxoniensis's fourteenth (!) Porn Battle, which is also an early birthday present for the lovely mod herself. It's Viola and Sherlock Holmes, using the prompt word "quiet" and the prompt pairing "any character played by Jonny Lee Miller/any character played by Imogen Stubbs."
She goes quiet when he comes toward her, holding herself still to see which way he will strike so she knows which way to jump. Her time on this distant shore has been like a fever-dream, all panicked and heated and wrong, and it had taken longer than it should have to realise that she'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Right there," he breathes, "you were right there," gesturing with his hands, palms pressed together, long fingers spearing the air just in front of her unbound chest. He's the law, that much is clear, but in no way is he the authority in this land; she does not have to suffer this, though she does want to hear more from him, his words that sound like home. His eyes brighten as if he can read every thought plain on her face. "You're an actress, have been for years. Not television or film - your skin shows no sign of the heavy makeup required by the cameras. Closer to your audience even than theatre, but not a busker."
So much of what he's saying is just sounds and gestures, less than accompaniment, now that she's got him properly in her sights. A very distinctive face, unkempt and scruffy and yet oddly handsome; the carelessness is just for show. There is ink on his skin, and she is intensely curious about how he has chosen to mark himself, but she is drawn back to that face, the nose long, the eyes brilliant, the mouth seeming pinker than blood could make it, perhaps because of the dark stubble that frames it. A duke in disguise, mayhap, as close to his audience as she'd been to hers, weaving silken scarves to enchant, trailing long locks of hair against heated skin, always, always meeting Sebastian's eyes to confirm each triumph.
He stops speaking when she presses her mouth to his, readily, though she is under no delusion that he has stopped thinking. She likes that, likes the thought of their tongues forging a connection, irresistibly drawing their arms around the other's torso, the fingers up to tangle in soft hair. "You've been a boy before," he says, unbuttoning the placket of her blouse to trace with those long fingers the marks that weeks of binding have left on the delicate skin. "A very pretty boy indeed." He lifts one breast, checking the heft even as one thumb brushes absently against her nipple; she chokes back her moan, quieting it into a breath on the cusp of a hiss. "And too recently to have been involved in these deaths." His eyes are back on hers; she is too dazed to shutter them against him with a demure sweep of lashes. He sounds amused when he amends, "Or even to know what I'm speaking of. You're free to go."
"What?" His hand, warm and alien, is still on her breast. "Good sir -"
He smiles at that, swooping in to catch her mouth in one last heated kiss. "Fare thee well, delicious one," he says and turns on his heel. Her fingers catch the softness of his cravat and tug it free, draping it around her own neck as she does up her buttons. He gives her his profile and a raised hand as he strides away, content to pay her price.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.