Work Text:
There wasn’t much to be done in an impeccable office owned by an immaculate man. Though you were as judicious a judicial assistant as they came, the only thing you could think of doing now was rearranging Barok’s vintage collection, and you would rather wriggle into the jury’s table and manually refill the verdict fire’s oil than do that unasked.
Speaking of, you wondered how many ‘hallowed chalices’ your employer had crushed in his fist so far, or the unlucky bottle-of-the-day that might have been flung behind into the audience splash zone. Poor bailiff—since you weren’t attending today’s trial, he’d probably be the one left to sweep up the shards of wine-stained glass. With the two pending tasks on your agenda, you just hadn’t the time to go, and Barok was graciously accommodating as always. You knew he handled himself well enough alone.
The first task was finished: a trip to the coroner’s stitched things up nicely, and the autopsy report for the prosecution’s next case (just on the morrow, pox on Britain’s judiciary system) was snug in your files. The second task was similarly snug, ensconced in heat of your own making and lubricated with a viscous mixture so clandestinely obtained that you feared it might come up in a trial down the road.
Leave it to a ‘great’ detective to contrive of such an unscrupulous meeting place and time, then slipping you the vial and its compatriot while relieving you of a particularly fine red (exquisite with mutton) that you’d lifted for the exchange. He would’ve made an excellent diver, that Sholmes.
Nevertheless, both his niche little inventions worked—were working—wonders. You could hardly wait for Lord van Zieks to get back and prayed for at least a couple notches on your I-wrenched-a-facial-expression-from-him board. It would justify the hour-long wait; goodness knows your underthings were going to need a thorough wash no matter the outcome.
Ah, there he was. You caught a glimpse of the hansom cab pulling up on the office grounds. Out stepped London’s loveliest legs in svelte, fitted boots, followed by a cloak that swathed him in his iconic battish silhouette. Your window view only afforded you the stack of his top hat, so you drew away from your vantage point and busied around the room doing nothing till the tell-tale click of Barok’s heels outside the door set your heart a-beating.
It opened to reveal a face like thunder, a brow pinched tighter than your purse-strings near the end of the month. Though the moment Barok’s blue-greys met yours, you fancied the storm in them cleared just a smidge.
“…You’re back.”
“Words out of my mouth, sir,” you returned the nod and put down the random book you’d been holding. “Tough trial with your learned friend?”
Barok said nothing, only sighed as he strode into the room, divesting himself of his outerwear. A loss for the prosecution yet a win for justice, then.
“He’s good and you know it,” you drifted over to him. “But I’d wager if you’d had your trusty assistant with you, you wouldn’t be looking so much like something the cat found in the gutter, eh?”
Again, no response. The cloud hanging over him was thick, you’ll give it that. If it had been anyone else, you were sure they’d have turned tail and fled several sentences ago, but you were accustomed to this menacing aura. It was simply hiding the grievances of a drawn-out courtroom humiliation, to say nothing of that fresh-faced novice hailing from the one country Barok unfairly despised.
Besides. The Lord Barok van Zieks was honestly a man as any other.
“Ahh, come now, sir. Buck up.”
He was sitting at his desk now, one elbow on the armrest with his temples between his thumbs. You could hear him level his breathing, unfurrowing his brow; Barok had this habit of tucking all his tension into a little ball inside himself so he could die stressed, so it was down to you to tease out what you could, at the very least to clear the damned air.
“Would you like a massage?”—you slid a hand over the top of the high-backed chair, narrowly avoiding grazing his head—“Or perhaps some tea?”—withdrawing, you stepped into the space between his knees and the desk—“Or maybe…me?”
The simultaneous mental cheer and cringe from the line you’d spent the day cooking up rang in your ears but you weren’t to be deterred.
“…Rather bold today, aren’t we? Well, I suppose my cheerless visage is of great entertainment to you, as always.” he remarked, exhaling through his nose. “Though frankly, I’m afraid I would be a poor companion for whatever you have in mind.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Maybe so. But what I do know is that we have another case tomorrow, and it’s high time we discussed any relevant findings.”
“Oh, leave it alone for a minute, Barok,” you took on a slightly wheedling tone. “You’re on the fritz—,”
“I am no such thing.”
“—and I’ve got a job-well-done gift for you, anyway. Care to see?”
An arched eyebrow. Barok exhaled again, settling into the chair. He crossed his arms and inclined his head, and you delightedly (relievedly) began undoing your trousers while shaking off your pre-untied boots. Suffice to say, this was not the kind of gift-giving Barok was expecting and you relished his almost imperceptible start.
“What are you—?”
“Shhh, sir, this next part’s,” you grunted, finally pushing the tight-fitting fabric off and, thinking quickly, swung your foot up onto the left armrest. “Important.”
There and bare for the world to see was your entrance, hips angled slightly for better viewing, with the base of something rubber and blue firmly wedged in. The stuff Sholmes had also given you was oozing out around the edges, in danger of dripping onto the polished floor.
“Well?” Actually, this position was squeezing the so-called ‘toy’ in a bit much and a glimmer of heat was blooming on your cheeks. Not to mention the fact that you were practically presenting yourself in his face. “What say you, milord? Don’t be—!”
Gloved hands: one cupping your calf and the other hovering at your entrance. Barok idly stroked his thumb across your skin, but it belied the shift in the air.
“—shy.”
“Pray forgive my abrupt handling of your personage,” said Barok under his breath, not sounding very sorry at all. His eyes deliberately dragged up to meet yours. “I wasn’t aware that we had hired a…slattern. Do tell, what could this”—he touched the base with the tip of his finger—“possibly be?”
You swallowed (unfortunately around air). “A-a toy, sir.”
“Ah. A plaything, is it? Yet it does not seem as childlike as its name suggests.”
He pushed. Your hips involuntarily lifted as the thing was driven that bit deeper.
“Well,” you steadily met his hooded gaze, stifling a groan the upstanding British way. “That’s what the, the manufacturer told me. It was called, I mean.”
“And who was that?”
Careful now. The grip round your leg tightened and slipped to your inner thigh, holding you open.
“You’re acquainted, sir. Man goes by Shol—mm.”
He’d applied force this time. Your lips pursed together, blood shooting to both ends of your body compass. Then, the gasp was torn from you as Barok, ever the clever one, tugged on the base enough to draw the rest out by a dash of centimetres and proceeded to shove the lot back inside.
You hadn’t quite thought to do that just yet. The sensation was like scratching round an itch: good, but nowhere near enough.
“You never cease to surprise,” Barok languidly continued his new exploit, continuing to talk to you in an incredibly measured tone. “Not only do I find that you deal with libertine charlatans, but I also discover a desperation so insatiable as to warrant such a…crass facsimile.”
“Better, um, half-full than all empty, sir.”
“…Half?”
In an instant, he’d swept you onto his coincidentally cleared desk, both legs held captive and limp at the knees. Your hands automatically braced behind you, rendering your position quite the randy one, spread like a book for easy perusal. Barok loomed over you, his presence heavy, with the backlighting from the window darkening his already shadowy mien.
Your eyes had been so arrested by Barok’s own that you had failed to notice the desirous outline that curved against the front of those hide-nothing trousers. His mounting erection, in other words.
Your tongue darted out to lick your lips.
“Shameless, and”—without warning, he pulled the toy completely out of you, and the noise you made in your throat was indecent at best—“crude. I don’t recall you being so quietly satisfied.”
The rubber offender was held up to the light, lewdly glistening with the product of questionable science. Barok let it drop to the ground, where it landed with a dull thump that echoed your thudding heartbeat. Without prompting, you spread your knees a little more and tilted your hips invitingly. The sight of your suddenly lonesome entrance, mouthing at nothing, drew a loaded sigh from your unshakeable prosecutor.
“I’m not. At all,” you said in a breath. His hands were absent-mindedly massaging what he could of your legs.
“How long?”
“An hour, give or take.”
Barok turned his head to the side, eyes closed, and murmured. “Pray, what part of this is meant to help me relax?”
“Kiss me and I’ll explain.”
He acquiesced readily, closing the sparse distance the way a hawk would to a fish breaking water. Finally, Barok allowed for just a little self-betrayal. You had thrown the reins around willy-nilly, but now he’d snatched them away, pushing and pushing you till his hand helped cradle the back of your head. His mouth moved sensually, discreetly, letting you feel his smouldering flames through the heat in his mouth, his tongue. His low voice, settled in his throat, was enough to make your stomach coil in fluttering knots. He knew you well, yet still held himself back even as spit slicked his chin.
All your doing. And more to come.
One of your legs had been freed from his calf-loving clutches, so you snuck your foot down to trace around his cock, giving the cloth a friendly toe-poke. A shudder went through him and he grunted into your mouth. Fingers gripped at your hair, so you responded in kind, roughly fitting and pressing the arch of your foot over what you figured to be his shaft.
Rub up, rub down.
Barok nipped your bottom lip.
“Minx.”
Your chuckle tapered into an indolent moan when Barok wrenched your head to one side, baring your neck, and settled his teeth onto a just-healed bruise. He latched on and ‘drank’ the way you liked, sucking and licking and biting enough to hurt. You could smell him, his muted cedarwood and musk, with trails of heady wine and tanned leather entangling your senses. He was everywhere…and he was hard.
“B-Barok, come on”—you hooked your ankle around what you could of his side and urged—“or I’ll kick your—,”
He pulled off you with a wet smack and straightened up, hair mussed, hands flitting to his trousers. They were short work, seeing as he only had to let out his cock.
“Too often do you skirt around my patience, assistant.”
Near flat on the desk as you were, you struggled to sit up to catch a glimpse. You were rewarded by Barok’s heavy hand on your lower abdomen.
“You didn’t have to go sappy for my benefit, sir,” The words bubbled out of you in a rush to have your twopence before you were shut up for good. “Like I said, this is for you.”
“Then I will repay in kind.”
There was the briefest nudge of what surely must be his cockhead and then it was everything, everywhere, all at once, so much so that the breath was indiscriminately wrung from your lungs. A long, hefty shaft of silken heat shouldered embarrassingly easily through you, widening your walls in a way that toy could only dream of. Truly, the mere thought of that rubber doo-dah was unceremoniously thrown out of your mind as you too eagerly suckled him in, feeling his comfortable thickness contending with your sloppy insides. The sensation was too delicious, too filling, and speaking of, you really couldn’t wait till—
“…You, are too easy.”
The desk jerked when Barok slammed himself inside you, fully sheathing to the hilt in his favoured scabbard. He didn’t give you any time to squirm or gasp and set a brutalising pace without his usual gentlemanly manner. Air became a precious commodity, your spine and hips were surely going to be a lovely mauve tomorrow—oh goodness, you were going to have to stand in court—and what remained on the desk had fallen to the floor like so much chaff on harvest day. It felt as if your every organ was being battered out of place.
No words now, only sounds: Barok was panting, actually panting, as he thrust into you, bottoming out each time and giving no quarter. The vicious slap and squelch of skin on dripping skin again, again, again. Your breathless, nonsensical, jolting cries to the ceiling.
You couldn’t hold onto anything, not even to him, as he held himself away from you yet held you down with only a pristinely, imperiously gloved hand. He was letting out his frustrations. Maybe that was why he was, in a way, hiding his face.
So, you again took matters into your own han-well, feet. Through the foggy haze of pounding pleasure, you stretched your legs, trying to wrap them around him. Barok caught one, your right, and turned his head to kiss your foot; you felt the line of his nose, his cheekbone, his ragged breath against your ankle. You indulged (and let him indulge) for a bit before shaking off his ministrations and going for the kill.
Gasping his name, you edged him closer and closer until you managed to lock your legs around his slim hips…which faltered, stuttered.
“I—,”
“You’ve, you’ve no right to sound so debauched,” says you, rasping. “And no right to stop moving, either.”
You tightened your hold and Barok leant down, hands on either side of you. His hair hung in his face, but his eyes had you pinned. They swam with lust, anger, anguish, though only one of these were directed at you, and through your indirect allowance (for even now, in his basest of throes, he remained lucid) he snapped his hips.
Your walls held him close, unwilling to let go, and Barok drove in thrice more till at last, his spend filled you in pumps. His hands clutched at the desk, chest heaving. A bead of sweat fell from his forehead to your neck. The heat of it, the trembling of his cock inside you plus your roiling walls, made you throw back your head in a moment of pure white as you, too, met your little death.
You very nearly fell asleep, but shook out of it at the last second.
Barok still hovered over you, strong and reliable as ever, and you made to sit up…then stand up, and you gestured him down to the chair. In his sweat-addled state, he did so without protest, and so it was unfettered that you shakily dropped to your knees (more bruising) between his legs and took his sullied cock in your mouth.
There was a noise of protest above you that you promptly ignored in favour of tasting the ménage à trois of Barok’s come, you, and that synthetic lubricant (were those traces of citrus?). You lapped it all up, cleaning, up and down the shaft, under the ridge, tonguing at his slit, even sucking a bit to get your money’s worth.
You heard him lean his head back and you smiled.
“I don’t recall,” murmured Barok to the office now heavy with sex. “This being a part of your duties.”
You popped off his softening cock, deeming it as good as it could ever be, and put your wobbly hands on his thighs.
“He who looks,” you cleared your throat. “Looks a gift horse in the mouth deserves to be raided by the Grecians, sir.”
He weakly snorted and lifted you up to sit on his lap. And by god! Barok van Zieks was smiling ever so softly (and ever so slightly) at you.
“Fool.”
And he kissed you, ignoring the mess of your mouth the way you ignored him a moment ago, ignoring the mess of your nethers on his expensive clothes. It was so tender as to be chaste, but there was passion ‘neath it all, and under that, an unplaceable longing that even you could not think to understand. Not yet.
In short, a kiss one would never expect from the fearsome Reaper of the Bailey.
The two of you parted with a sigh. Oh so many sighs with this man.
“Barok…,” you leant your forehead on his. His eyes were closed almost pensively, arms loose around you.
“Mm.”
“…I got the autopsy report. Looks like foul play by way of steak knife.”
Barok van Zieks exhaled through his nose and opened those blue-greys. At last, for now, the storm had cleared.
“Didn’t you tell me not to talk about work?”
“That was then,” Carpe diem, you pecked him on the tip of his nose and cleared your throat again. “This is now. C’mon, look alive. That diorama won’t build itself, you know.”
His arms fell away alongside his eye-roll of a groan and you hopped off him, still trouser-less. If he was feeling better, you were feeling fantastic, and tomorrow, everyone would be suffering in court for a variety of reasons.
“Pray forgive my assistant’s capriciousness,” Again, he spoke to the room, but pointed his tone at you. “Though…perhaps it does have its own pleasures.”
“And the prosecution rests!” you added from under the chalice cabinet, scrounging around for your socks. “Throw open a window, won’t you?”