lokisarmy-in-the-tardis:

iamladyloki:

Obeyance by ~MadMoro

Somebody write the fic to go with this. Preferably before I melt.

Irene is not quite clear why they bring him to her after he tries and fails for the second time to take over the world, but she’s certainly not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She smirks a little at the unintended pun and circles around him, catlike, appreciating the green against his skin, and the way he keeps his eyes down. She likes the contrast of his black hair against his fair coloring - it reminds her of someone else she knew a long time ago. Part of her wishes he’d look up so she could see his eyes, but oh, he’s just so delicious all contrite and beaten. It’s a good quality in a man. She stops her circle directly in front of him and glides the pointed toe of one of her stilettos from his knee to his thigh and the boy doesn’t so much as flinch. Oh. A challenge.

“It’s a little bit funny, don’t you think?” she muses. “How you wanted everyone to kneel. How you said it was the thing for which we were created.” She wants to put her fingers under his chin, to tip his face up and see if he’ll meet her eyes, but she doesn’t. Not yet.

“And look at you now.” She’s so eager she almost licks her lips but settles instead for a reproachful cluck of her tongue. “I love it.”

Power radiates off of this one, but the chains she’s got him in are more than enough to keep him in check. His skin is smooth; he looks like he’s been carved from something, but he would, wouldn’t he, being a god? The snake resting around her shoulders dips an impatient tongue into her ear, and she turns to press her lips to his nose, a gentle refusal. No. Not for this one, no venom would touch him. Not yet, anyway. Not unless he was a very good boy.

She’s played with presidents and prime ministers, had flirted once with a Pope and once with a consulting detective and it was hard to say which rebuff was more surprising (but not which was more disappointing). She had tied up a Duchess and made her beg before she made her come, but she’d never had the good fortune to have a god at her disposal. And the god of mischief, too. Well, say what you would about Miss Irene Adler, but one thing was unfailingly true: she did so like to misbehave. 

(Source: winterwidow, via greencarnations)

babinus:

“Orgullo”

She was more distracting with lace draped over her small, slight form, than when she was completely naked. 

John, of course, knew where to look, regardless, and that horrible Adler woman knew it. Lace or naked as the day she was born (well, not quite that naked, perhaps, because there was still something there, she wasn’t as abandoned as an infant, not to rage, not to the shock of being born, being out in the air for the first time - no, even naked, Irene Adler was wearing a disguise) John was unfazed. He had seen plenty of naked women before her, and he would see plenty of naked women after her.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had not seen many naked women. He had seen less than a handful of living ones, anyway, and none of them could wear lace quite so well.

It was distracting. The image of that woman, dressed expensively in lace and draping herself casually over whichever surface would have her, infiltrated Sherlock’s mind palace. She never sprang on him unawares, no, she was not quite so pedestrian. But he would turn a corner and there she would be, inexplicably, suddenly, and yet looking for all the world like she belonged there, and that it was he who was intruding. Into his own bloody mind!

The worse part was that he couldn’t even really be angry. The curve of her lip, the quick flash in her eyes, the mocking, knowing looks with which she favored him, as if she were always, always two steps ahead, no, three…and the way that the damnable lace played about her pale skin…skin so even and so touched with dew that she hardly seemed human…well, each time he saw her, it was all he could do not to invite her to join him for dinner.

(Source: naughtysweetness, via moriartium-formula)

nevver:

What cha want

“Oh, sorry, dear!” Ms. Adler said, her hand resting lightly on the straining man’s shoulder. “We have a strict hands-off policy when it comes to the new girls.”

The man grunted an expletive. 

“Now, now there’s no need for that,” Ms. Adler said, quirking an eyebrow up at Katharine, who flexed her foot sharply, twisting the man’s wrist just a bit further. He yelped in pain. 

“She could snap that wrist, you know. I certainly wouldn’t stop her. And it’d be a long couple of months for you, I expect, waiting for it to heal - that is your dominant hand, if I’m not mistaken.” Ms. Adler wasn’t asking; she knew. “A long, frustrating couple of months.”

“You’re in the wrong line of work, lady!” the man snarled. “I’ll have you both brought up on assault charges!”

“Hardly,” she said, bored. ”Katharine, darling, you really must forgive me,” she added.

“Ms. Adler?”

“Usually I’m quite adept at spotting the likes of himbefore they even set foot in here. You see, my dear fellow, clients generally know to respect my girls, and the girls have come to expect it. Now, at least, you know better. Much good it’ll do you.”

She walked away, waving her hand lazily at Katharine as if to say, do what you will.

Katharine took a step back and, as expected, the man tried to swipe her legs out from under her. She kicked him once, hard. “Get him out of here,” she said to the bouncer who had been waiting patiently for this very resolution to play out. She hopped down from the bar gracefully and walked away, deliberately ignoring the eyes that turned in her direction.

Never a dull moment when you worked with Irene Adler.

costume-and-construction:

Edwardian fencing outfit.

There were three ways in which Irene Adler had beaten the illustrious Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

This first wasn’t very clever, she thought. A simple disguise - a collar flipped high, a hat into which she tucked her dark hair, a dark scarf to hide the daintiness of her neck and the clomping walk of a boy not long out of school. She allowed her voice to crack, just a little, on his surname as she wished him good evening. She gathered that he meant to stop by at eight in the morning, and left hours in advance along with the photograph he sought.

The second was over a century later, when she’d taken a riding crop to him, drugged him and fled through an open window, free to misbehave another day while the detective slept it off. That, she thought, was even less inspired - she’d hardly even had to use a sleight of hand to hid the syringe, but Mr. Holmes did make a rather unfortunate habit of underestimating women. Perhaps he wouldn’t do so anymore.

And the last time was frightfully literal but also somewhat poetic, she thought, and highly satisfying if nothing else. It was also completely unnecessary, but she supposed at this point she’d just developed a taste for one-upping the man. Besides - he’d accused her of sentiment and then saved her life and how could she let him get away with that?

If he’d known it was her when they dueled, he hadn’t let on. The bout had gone on far longer than the allotted five minutes. She could hear him snarling through his mask, and it only made her smile as she parried and riposted each attack, a step ahead of his every strategy, and she was doing this in heels.

He aimed each time, whether in four or in six, for the heart stitched onto the left side of her jacket, which she had placed their specifically to distract him. She clucked her tongue at him, amused: And you accuse me of sentiment, my dear? she thought, allowing him to step just a jot too close and beating his blade out of the way on her final riposte. He spun to turn his back on her and stalked down the strip, all long limbs and ire. John Watson was a very lucky man, she thought deviously, and he’d be thanking her later when Sherlock returned to the flat sweaty and frustrated and beaten once again. Heaven knew how the boy hated that.

“You’re rather good -” he said grudgingly, turning to face her.

“You’re not so bad.”

His eyes widened slightly and then narrowed: he seemed to recognize her voice.

“Who are you?” he asked finally.

She pulled off her mask to meet his eyes and saluted him.

“I’m hurt,” she drawled. “One would think you would remember the woman.” 

She smirked at the slight flush of color to those impossible cheekbones.

“Oh, yes, dear,” she told him, “I know all about the nickname.”

(via maggiedreadful)