all recurring joy (Carson/Hughes, rated MA, slight spoilers for S2E3)
Because I'm incapable of posting an MA story without an LJ cut.
For the lovebelowstairs Battleships, Bring your ship to Harbour challenge and because Anna/Bates shippers -- Mrs Patmore? Really?
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William and Daisy's engagement made Carson smile. Not because it would do the lad good on long lonely nights at the front, though it would, but because it made him nostalgic to see a big broad footman with the smallest and slightest of the female staff.
He had always preferred small women. When he was younger it had worried him; he thought it might be a perversion. But he couldn't help which girls his eyes followed, which women made his body tingle.
When he went on the stage he learned what true perversion was, and a liking for petite females was nowhere on the list. For form's sake he bedded a few larger women, just to see if it were only habit that informed his longings, but it put him in mind of two elephants mating. Large women were never as tight, as hot, as good as those he felt he could pick up and put in his pocket.
He'd gone into service in a winter where bookings were scarce, Griggs's thievery was rampant and blatant, and his stomach was empty. He wouldn't stay long, he vowed. A year, maybe two. Just enough to put some meat back on his bones and a little money in his pocket.
When the servants' door at Downton was opened by a pert ginger maid who came up only to his shoulder and who spoke with a lilting accent that seemed designed to whisper naughty things against his thighs he knew he would stay as long as it took to have his fill of her.
Twenty years later and he still hadn't.
He wondered if the secrecy weren't part of the charm, a call-back to the days he thought his preferences were something forbidden. It set his blood pounding when he thought of how people looked at Mrs Hughes -- stern, forbidding, dour -- and then of her in the night, his hand clamped tightly on her mouth to keep the house from hearing the way he made her scream through her climax. It thrilled him to watch her at dinner, delicately spooning soup into her mouth, and anticipate how different she would look kneeling on the floor of his pantry, lips stretched wide around him, looking up to watch his face so very far above her. When she took a moment during the day to relax, sitting primly on a hard chair, her back straight and legs firmly together, he would recall how wantonly she would spread herself on his narrow bed, legs draped over either side of the mattress, fingers playing with her nipples, waiting for him to take her or tongue her or do with her as he would.
She had recently taken to scolding him, and he really didn't mind. He knew she only did so because she worried about him. He smiled absently as she circled his desk, reminding him he was getting no younger and that he must think of going slow.
Tonight he would remind her that there was still life in these old bones. He would kiss her and caress her and pull her above him, his hands roaming and filling all the small spaces of her body. He would keep her keening on the edge of ecstasy until she begged him to go faster, harder, and then he would lift her easily as a doll, pushing her down hard and tight on his length. She would groan with the effort of making space for so much of him in so little of her and he would groan from the joy of the heat and the friction, of the feeling of being so big and strong and wanted. Between them they would move with a grace like dancing, and when they were through she would collapse against his chest. His hands would easily span her back, stroking her, calming her.
She had whispered to him, the first time they'd been together, that she had always wanted a man she could look up to. He hadn't then dared, with his mouth on her breast and his fingers in that tight wet space between her thighs, to ask if she'd meant that figuratively or literally, and he hadn't dared after. It didn't matter anymore: he liked to think he was both.
For the lovebelowstairs Battleships, Bring your ship to Harbour challenge and because Anna/Bates shippers -- Mrs Patmore? Really?
-------------------------------------------------------
William and Daisy's engagement made Carson smile. Not because it would do the lad good on long lonely nights at the front, though it would, but because it made him nostalgic to see a big broad footman with the smallest and slightest of the female staff.
He had always preferred small women. When he was younger it had worried him; he thought it might be a perversion. But he couldn't help which girls his eyes followed, which women made his body tingle.
When he went on the stage he learned what true perversion was, and a liking for petite females was nowhere on the list. For form's sake he bedded a few larger women, just to see if it were only habit that informed his longings, but it put him in mind of two elephants mating. Large women were never as tight, as hot, as good as those he felt he could pick up and put in his pocket.
He'd gone into service in a winter where bookings were scarce, Griggs's thievery was rampant and blatant, and his stomach was empty. He wouldn't stay long, he vowed. A year, maybe two. Just enough to put some meat back on his bones and a little money in his pocket.
When the servants' door at Downton was opened by a pert ginger maid who came up only to his shoulder and who spoke with a lilting accent that seemed designed to whisper naughty things against his thighs he knew he would stay as long as it took to have his fill of her.
Twenty years later and he still hadn't.
He wondered if the secrecy weren't part of the charm, a call-back to the days he thought his preferences were something forbidden. It set his blood pounding when he thought of how people looked at Mrs Hughes -- stern, forbidding, dour -- and then of her in the night, his hand clamped tightly on her mouth to keep the house from hearing the way he made her scream through her climax. It thrilled him to watch her at dinner, delicately spooning soup into her mouth, and anticipate how different she would look kneeling on the floor of his pantry, lips stretched wide around him, looking up to watch his face so very far above her. When she took a moment during the day to relax, sitting primly on a hard chair, her back straight and legs firmly together, he would recall how wantonly she would spread herself on his narrow bed, legs draped over either side of the mattress, fingers playing with her nipples, waiting for him to take her or tongue her or do with her as he would.
She had recently taken to scolding him, and he really didn't mind. He knew she only did so because she worried about him. He smiled absently as she circled his desk, reminding him he was getting no younger and that he must think of going slow.
Tonight he would remind her that there was still life in these old bones. He would kiss her and caress her and pull her above him, his hands roaming and filling all the small spaces of her body. He would keep her keening on the edge of ecstasy until she begged him to go faster, harder, and then he would lift her easily as a doll, pushing her down hard and tight on his length. She would groan with the effort of making space for so much of him in so little of her and he would groan from the joy of the heat and the friction, of the feeling of being so big and strong and wanted. Between them they would move with a grace like dancing, and when they were through she would collapse against his chest. His hands would easily span her back, stroking her, calming her.
She had whispered to him, the first time they'd been together, that she had always wanted a man she could look up to. He hadn't then dared, with his mouth on her breast and his fingers in that tight wet space between her thighs, to ask if she'd meant that figuratively or literally, and he hadn't dared after. It didn't matter anymore: he liked to think he was both.