vulgarweed: (the game by isaac_of_nine)
[personal profile] vulgarweed
I’m almost 4000 words into an Irene/Mary kinkfest for my Season of Kink card, and also for Femslash WhateverMonthIWindUpPostingItIn, and it’s giving me fits. It’s all over the place. It’s a beautiful hot mess disaster with a contemporary setting but full of 19th century literature damage, and in first person for some godforsaken reason.

I think the only way it makes sense is if you know that in this story my Irene and Mary are about half Raffles and Bunny and about half Wanda and Severin.



Her immense and elegant wardrobe had a lock - and Irene did not have a key! Or at least she didn’t use one - she drew from her dressing-gown pocket a small box about the size of an old-fashioned cigarette case. She did me the honor of letting me focus entirely on her delicate, manicured, skillful hands as she undid the lock by a complicated series of actions with tiny tools. I was as rapt as if I studied the hands of a master pianist in a concert hall.

I was watching the more secret of her two known great arts, most likely the one that she valued most.

“I destroy all the keys for my locks,” she said with a wry quarter of a smile. “Keeps even my ‘trusted’ help out, and it keeps me in tip-top form.”

As the doors parted, I gasped - for what had appeared to be an ordinary if large antique wardrobe was vast within; it was the gateway to a secret room. I would not have been totally shocked to see a wintry forest landscape with a lamp-post at the end of it.

What there was down that close and narrow hallway - that was fantasyland enough for me. There was all the gear I expected - the practical form-fitting clothes all in black, balaclava and gloves, mountaineering boots for climbing walls, and soft shoes whose main virtue was silence, all of that - I had those myself and was very familiar with their use. There were uniforms too - ones meant to intimidate and those meant to render one invisible. There were so many things designed to disguise and alter the self.

“A disguise is always a self-portrait,” she said, her soft voice droll and nearly in my ear. “I have not yet found a way to avoid that completely.”

And all these items in her secret closet were aspects of Irene in her complexity. As I pressed further on, the nature of her collection changed, and my hands reached out in longing to touch. These were the costumes of her other profession - silk and satin, brightly shining PVC, dull matte rubber, and seductively gleaming leather, rich in scent. I could restrain myself no longer - my hand did reach out to touch soft fluttering feathers and thick, dark furs. Images flooded my mind of Irene draped in such finery - a sadistic torturer, a predatory forest creature, a barbarian queen.



hahaha this is going to run so much longer than I thought. But I WILL make this pairing catch on if it kills me.
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