Categories > Books > Pride and Prejudice
A Pemberley Divertissement
3 reviewsIn which Mr. Darcy is compared to a Dessert and Wickham demonstrates a certain Disrespect for Leviticus. People - don't take this thing so bloody seriously! It was meant for fun, not as disrespect ...
5Funny
*a pemberley divertissement *
When he opened his eyes, there was nothing to be seen but a veritable snowscape of linen. The bed was large enough to get lost in. Darcy knew; he had slept in it for years and been lost on several occasions. Once, he had crawled about in the terra incognita of bolster and counterpane for well over two hours, missing his supper and the opening quadrille of a small dance being held in the salon below. Another occasion had come to a somewhat different conclusion when he had fortuitously encountered the bellpull and been obliged to use it to summon the aid of his valet. (Darcy thought he detected a new hint of insolence in the man's manner that might well have dated from that little contretemps. ) And there had been a time or two when getting lost in the bed had been more metaphorical than literal...
The master of Pemberley sighed and closed his eyes. The old brandy on top of the claret had perhaps been an error. He had always prided himself on being able to carry his wine like a gentleman, but Wickham, b ----- him, Wickham carried his like a sailor. Darcy made a mental note never to allow Wickham to entice him into one of his drinking games again...
Someone in the dim region of the other side of the bed began to sing "Pretty Polly-O" in a drawling tenor, then the song broke off and something warm and wet insinuated itself into the heretofore inviolate coil of Darcy's ear.
"Fffffffffiiiiitzy..." someone purred against the same ear.
Darcy's eyes flew open again, and he experienced certain qualms rather painful than otherwise. These were not allayed by the sight of a familiar countenance, mere inches from his own, wearing an equally familiar smirk. Disordered dark curls fell over a high, pale brow, and improbably blue eyes looked into his.
"/Wickham/?"
"Oh, it's Wickham now, is it? You were a bit more.../come-to-ish/ last night, I must say, /Mr. Darcy/."
"I was? Good Lord." Darcy attempted to sit up, but the strong, blunt fingers splayed across his chest pinned him quite effectively to the mattress. Wickham, with his angel's face and his vulgar, vulgar hands...
"You were indeed. You're such a little tart, Fitzy. " Wickham's tongue went back to work on Darcy's ear for a moment, and the hand traveled somewhat lower.
For a man who intended to take Holy Orders, Wickham's acquaintance with Leviticus appeared suspiciously limited to how many of the Mosaic Laws could be violated in the shortest possible span of time. Admirable, really, in a perverse way. In a splendidly perverse way...
"A tart with / cream/, Fitzy..."
"Wickham!"
"Mmmmmm...."
Darcy's fingers closed convulsively in the sheets. He was going to be lost again. Deliciously, gloriously lost.
"George..."
When he opened his eyes, there was nothing to be seen but a veritable snowscape of linen. The bed was large enough to get lost in. Darcy knew; he had slept in it for years and been lost on several occasions. Once, he had crawled about in the terra incognita of bolster and counterpane for well over two hours, missing his supper and the opening quadrille of a small dance being held in the salon below. Another occasion had come to a somewhat different conclusion when he had fortuitously encountered the bellpull and been obliged to use it to summon the aid of his valet. (Darcy thought he detected a new hint of insolence in the man's manner that might well have dated from that little contretemps. ) And there had been a time or two when getting lost in the bed had been more metaphorical than literal...
The master of Pemberley sighed and closed his eyes. The old brandy on top of the claret had perhaps been an error. He had always prided himself on being able to carry his wine like a gentleman, but Wickham, b ----- him, Wickham carried his like a sailor. Darcy made a mental note never to allow Wickham to entice him into one of his drinking games again...
Someone in the dim region of the other side of the bed began to sing "Pretty Polly-O" in a drawling tenor, then the song broke off and something warm and wet insinuated itself into the heretofore inviolate coil of Darcy's ear.
"Fffffffffiiiiitzy..." someone purred against the same ear.
Darcy's eyes flew open again, and he experienced certain qualms rather painful than otherwise. These were not allayed by the sight of a familiar countenance, mere inches from his own, wearing an equally familiar smirk. Disordered dark curls fell over a high, pale brow, and improbably blue eyes looked into his.
"/Wickham/?"
"Oh, it's Wickham now, is it? You were a bit more.../come-to-ish/ last night, I must say, /Mr. Darcy/."
"I was? Good Lord." Darcy attempted to sit up, but the strong, blunt fingers splayed across his chest pinned him quite effectively to the mattress. Wickham, with his angel's face and his vulgar, vulgar hands...
"You were indeed. You're such a little tart, Fitzy. " Wickham's tongue went back to work on Darcy's ear for a moment, and the hand traveled somewhat lower.
For a man who intended to take Holy Orders, Wickham's acquaintance with Leviticus appeared suspiciously limited to how many of the Mosaic Laws could be violated in the shortest possible span of time. Admirable, really, in a perverse way. In a splendidly perverse way...
"A tart with / cream/, Fitzy..."
"Wickham!"
"Mmmmmm...."
Darcy's fingers closed convulsively in the sheets. He was going to be lost again. Deliciously, gloriously lost.
"George..."
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