Chapter Text
The shop is, in a word, discreet. Not hidden, or anything so, well, common; just... not immediately noticeable among the neat rows of high class establishments. It is just as well ornamented, the facade spotless, but there is something about it that encourages the eye to move along, not to linger. As though you were caught staring at a duchess, or some high priest. Someone you had neither the rank nor the right to look at.
In this case, the majority of people would just not have the money. There are no goods on display, but when Hermann opens the lacquered door to the sound of a crystalline tinkle, the very air he breathes feels expensive.
The neatly dressed tailor walking to meet him wears a forbidding expression on their face, which suddenly clears when they recognise him. Hermann’s rousing successes as Prince Vladimir has made him instantly recognisable, and Earl Pentecost’s patronage has led him to a number of rich soirees in Moscow.
“Welcome! Please, welcome.” Their voice is soft, barely a whisper, but it sounds loud in the muffled silence of the store.
“Please, come in, please.” The tailor’s hand brushes his sleeve, barely a touch, a featherweight. “Please. My dears, take our prince’s coat.”
Hermann shifts his cane uncomfortably and tries to smile when a flutter of assistants float in and slip off his topcoat, undercoat, and even his jacket; so fast and with such light caresses that it feels as though his clothes had turned to down- drifting away and leaving him in shirtsleeves and trousers so tight he’d been embarrassed to wear them outside.
The tailor slips out a silk measuring cord out of apparently nowhere, and takes Hermann’s hand in a grip so ephemeral it feels like being held by mist. “Now, prince Igorivitch, how may we serve you?” The cord slips up to his elbow, Hermann feels the hairs on his arm stand up and the stir as the silk brushes over them.
“A shift for the Opera, perhaps? We can make you a robe you can wear under any costume, so light you will barely feel it, light as a cloud, sir, as a cloud.” The cord snakes to his shoulder. One of the aids is furiously scribbling down measurements.
“Or you may be tired of the rough fur of your gloves, and would like something finer for such delicate hands.” The cord evaporates and the tailor is holding his hand in both of his. Hermann nearly loses his balance. Their fingers brush over his palm, firmly extending his fingers, mapping over the sensitive skin of his wrist. “A lovely grey, to match those beautiful silver furs. Silk under fur, that is the secret. Silk under fur and you will never be cold, were you to go to Siberia.”
The cord spins itself from nothing again, and goes back to measuring his shoulders. The pressure is so light he shouldn’t be able to feel it through his shirt, but he does. A delicate flickering over his shoulder blades, down his spine, over his hips.
“Hmm, perhaps something a little more... intimate?” The tailor’s voice is softer still, a buzzing whisper almost at his ear. “Breathe in please.” The cord clinches tight around his waist, “A little more, good.” It flicks down to the outside of his thigh, the inside of his calf. Hermann can feel it even through his trousers, and feels the flush start somewhere around his collarbones.
“Ah, yes! I discern your intentions now! There is a suitor in mind yes? A certain someone?” Hermann feels the blush rise to his face. “And there is the need to procure yourself a delicate little something to attract their attention, yes? A little something to flatter an already delightful figure, to draw attention to the already perfect-“ The cord flutters around his waist, the hollow of his back – “and to make the good simply-“ it snakes down to Hermann’s inner thigh – “irresistible.”
Newt hadn’t wanted to go out. It was cold and miserable outside, with ice inches thick on the streets. But Sasha had been insistent. He had avoided their invitation for a tour for too long- now he could either go with them willingly, or be carried around by Alexis like a bag of potatoes. Worse, with the ice on the streets, he would be going without Hermann.
Even with his face covered, everyone they pass seems to be staring. He can feel their eyes scraping over him like sandpaper on a raw nerve. Every muffled sound is laughter, mockery. Every gesture heralds a thrown stone.
After seeing Newt flinch for the seventh time at a stranger’s stray glance. Sasha stops. “If they stare at you, laugh at you, do anything, Alexis will throw them in the Volga.”
“And you will laugh,” Alexis’ English is slow, but his smile is bright and brilliant, “when they try to swim.”
Newt looks down at the Volga. It’s frozen solid. “In this river?” He says doubtfully.
“You have not seen how hard Alexis can throw them.” Sasha laughs, Alexis laughs. Finally, even Newt has to join in.
The tour is a little abortive. They have barely left the square before the first flakes fall. Alexis looks up and shakes his head. They start heading back and barely return to the hotel in time before the blizzard starts in earnest. Sasha and Alexis don't look bothered though, they smile and wave when Newt pushes the door open, and head back to their house as though the blizzard was nothing more than a summer shower.
The wind is a knife even through Newt’s protective layers of clothing. He shivers and stamps his boots in the hotel lobby, knocking loose great blocks of snow. It melts almost at once in the open heat of the hotel. Every fire is lit, and the hot water pipes warm the walls.
Hermann isn’t in the lobby, or the dining room. Surely he’s not mad enough to go out in this?
“Sir has remained in his room.” The hotel staff sniffs when he asks. The man’s eyes skate over his face, linger on the hollow of his right eye, where his balaclava doesn’t quite cover the scales. Newt clenches his fists to hold back the old terror, the urge to cover his face and flee. He looks the man in the eye, stomach turning to water, and thanks him formally. He walks away, stiff backed, careful measured steps. He will not run. He will not run.
The man does not shout at him, or laugh, or throw anything. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s gone by the time Newt builds up the courage to turn around.
“Hermann?” He knocks at the door. “Are you alright? They said you hadn’t left your room-“
“I’m fine.” The voice inside sounds a little strained. “You can- come in, if you like?”
“Are you okay?” Newt pushes the door open.
The need to hide hasn’t left him, which is the only reason he manages to close the door. The rest of him is too stunned to move.
Hermann smiles nervously. “Do you like it?”
His voice is a little faint, and no wonder. He has laced himself into the corset so tightly it’s a miracle he can breathe. Newt walks over as though in a dream. Hermann is wearing nothing but silk, and barely that at all.
An elegant long corset, that looks almost too delicate to hold such tight lacing. Just the barest touch of lace, everything to heighten the perfect planes of Hermann’s body, the narrowness of his hips. Soft underclothes so gossamer thin they are almost translucent, barely covering him and low enough that between them and the corset, Newt can see just a sliver of pale skin.
And the stockings, the same grey-silver silk as the rest, sheathing Hermann from foot almost to hip, hugging every defined muscle of his dancer’s legs, the fabric shimmering in the candlelight.
Newt takes another step forward almost despite himself. Hermann sits up with a little difficulty and Newt can hear the whalebone creak. “I thought you’d like it?” Hermann lifts an arm above his head, extends the other out across the pillows. His legs part just a little.
Blood floods Newt’s face, he shivers deliciously. He sits on the edge of the bed.
Hermann’s feet flex in the coverlet. Newt can see his toes move inside the silk. He reached out his hands and covers the top of his feet. The tendons are sharp under his hands, strong and taut, he slides his hands up and the fabric is like water, whispering over the strong, delicate muscles of Hermann’s ankles.
Hermann reaches down and takes his hands, easing off first one glove, then the other. Newt shuffles a little closer as Hermann pulls him in, smiling. His long legs slip apart, one folding carefully over Newt’s lap. When Hermann releases his hands, Newt drops them to the curve of his thigh. He traces nonsense patterns along the silk, careful not to let his nails catch on the soft, fine fabric.
Hermann turns his attention to his face, pulling his hood back, working his hands under the balaclava. Newt closes his eyes and lowers his head to help Hermann remove it. His hair stands up as it is pulled off. His hands gently work up the inside of Hermann’s thighs. The silk whispering, almost soundless against his scales. Hermann shivers, a delicious, full body ripple of motion that makes Newt’s mouth go dry.
His hands slip over the tracework of lace at the tops of the stockings, to the bare skin above, covered only by the taut little suspenders. Just the small line of skin at the top of his thighs. Newt rubs a thumb in the crease of hip and thigh and Hermann whines deep in his throat. A lovely sound.
Hermann jerks his hips a little, and Newt can see the outline of his cock, already half-hard, cradled inside the silk of his panties. Hermann’s eyes are bright, and he arches his back. Wilful. Demanding.
Newt smiles, and works his hands up to the spun silk of Hermann’s panties, just a strip of impossibly thin cloth. His thumbs press into the hollows of his hips and Newt leans down, letting his breath brush over the slowly growing swell between his legs.
Hermann makes a soft, strangled sound, throwing his head back, legs tightening around Newt’s waist. He can smell him, hot and musky, feel him trembling under his hands. Eager. Quite ready.
Newt smiles, and presses a kiss to the slip of skin between panties and corset. Hermann gives an undignified gasp, and tries to sit up. But Newt catches him around the waist, where the bones of the corset are the tightest, and his body has been pinched so tight Newt can almost span it with both hands. He holds Hermann down, and touches his lips to the curve of his hip, tastes faint salt through the silk.
“Gott-“ Hermann whispers, “Newt-“
“Shh.” Newt smiles against the silk. “I’ve got you.”
“Newt,” his hips buck, trying to rock against him. “I need-“
“This is for me, right?” Another kiss, on the other hip. Hermann whines. “If it’s for me, then I decide what we’re doing.”
“Damn you.” Hermann is half laughing. “You were late coming back. I’ve been dressed like this for- an hour, at least. An hour in these maddening, soft-“ He shudders again, the fabric slipping, so slightly, over his erect cock.
“Is that what you want? Some friction?” Newt catches the edge of the panties between his teeth, and pulls hard. Hermann’s body jolts under him as the fabric snatches taut against him.
“Please.”
Newt lets go and he groans. “That must be driving you mad. You’re so hard in there, and all you can feel is the silk. All those soft little touches, all over you.” Another groan, deeper. Newt kisses his chest, feels the tightness of the whalebone, the reverberation from his throat. “Never quite enough.”
Another kiss, just where the stiff silk meets skin. The corset has slid down just enough to uncover one nipple, and the tickle of the lace has teased it to stiff, dark hardness. Newt lets the heat of his breath play over the sensitive skin.
“Oh-“ Hermann gasps, laughing. “You- teuful- devil-“
“Lucifer.” Newt licks a long stripe from perfect collarbones to the hollow of Hermann’s throat. “The Angel of Music, remember?”
“Damn you-“
“And you make such lovely music.” He tightens his grip on Hermann’s waist, bending the whalebone a little further in, a perfect circles, fingers and thumbs touching. “A beautiful musical instrument. Just for me.” He catches Hermann mid complaint, and kisses him. His mouth tastes of sweet Russian tea, lips soft and tender, moving against his. Newt’s clothes are too close, underclothes too tight. He lets go of Hermann to unbutton them one-handed, the other resting on that slender- perfect, impossible – body to hold Hermann in place, to keep him from wriggling away and finding the contact he so desperately wants.
He squirms anyway, so much that Newt kicks his boots off and shuffles up the bed, straddling him. Hermann's hands go eagerly to his trousers, starting to undo the ties. “Hurry up, please.”
“Shh.” Newt bends down and kisses his. Jacket falling to the floor, shirt following almost at once. “My treat, remember?” His trousers are next, underclothes gone too. His cock presses eagerly against the slick, delicious fabric of the corset.
“If you ruin it-“ Hermann starts, and is kissed silent.
“I’ll buy you another. I’ll buy you ten. I’ll lace you into the next one. You’ll be dressed just like this, with me behind you, tightening you up. Pulling you in so tight that I can feel it when I’m inside you-“ His cock twitches, slipping wetly across the silk. Hermann groans.
“Gott, just- do it. Please, I can’t-“
Newt eases off him, hoisting himself just far up enough that he doesn’t brush against Hermann’s straining cock, trapped within the silk, pre-come staining the fabric a darker grey. He settled back between Hermann's legs. “You look so good.” He kisses the inside of Hermann’s thigh, the underside where hip meets leg. Licks the tight fabric, just beside his cock. So close Hermann can feel the dampness when he moves, but not enough to give him anything to press against.
“Bitte!” Hermann gasps, shudders.
Newt cants his hips up, slides hands under him, slips inside the panties. Hermann mewls, the fabric tightening still more across his cock, highlighting every detail to Newt’s eager eyes; his cock pressed up until the head just peeks out over the line of silk, still caught in the lace, balls drawn up close against his body.
Newt kisses them, first one, then the other, and Hermann screams. It’s short. Hermann covers his mouth, mortified. But he screamed, and Newt is never going to let him forget it.
He spreads his cheeks with his scaled hand, and delves in with the other. His hole is wet, slippery. Newt blinks.
“Why do you think I’m so desperate- Gott, do something-“
He’s slick, loose, quite open. Newt can just see him, spread out of the bed, in these delicious clothes, one hand buried three fingers deep inside himself. Preparing himself. Getting himself ready.
For Newt.
He cock twitches and he has to bite his lip not to come- like that, right now, without being touched. The pot of oil is still on the dresser and Newt only takes the time to slop a little on himself before he’s pulling the panties down- just enough to uncover him, to let that red, eager cock pop free.
“Please-“
He’s so ready. He’s so open Newt just slides in, smooth and perfect. Two parts of a whole coming together, as easy and natural as though they had been made for this. They belonged like this.
Hermann groans, so deep and desperate Newt can feel it in his cock, buried deep inside Hermann. Those impossibly long, perfect legs wrap around his waist, trying to lift higher and failing, the silk sliding uselessly over skin and scale alike.
“Gott- just get me- I’m so close, you’re almost there please-“
“Okay.” Newt breathes. Anything above a whisper is too much. “Okay, you’ve been good.”
“I’ve been good- what about you, you- ohhh-“ Whatever Hermann was about to say dies into a long moan as Newt hikes his legs up and leans over, moving inside him until his cock is tight up against that impossibly sweet spot inside him.
“Ohh, do that again.” Hermann’s voice is no more than a whisper, eyes closed.
Newt moves, sliding slowly in, then out. Hermann flexes his legs and that is so impossibly tight Newt can’t breathe it’s wonderful-
“Touch me, please.” Hermann breathes, his hands tighten on Newt’s shoulders, their faces are inches apart.
Newt is beyond speech. If he says a word he’ll come. He wraps a hand around Hermann’s cock and starts working it in time to their thrusts. Hermann shudders, and Newt is in so deep he wonders if he can feel the corset, where Hermann has laced himself so tightly it’s crushing in around him, so hot and so tight and so good-
Hermann gasps, eyes flying open and that’s all the warning Newt has as he comes in hot, wet bursts, slopping across Newt’s hand and his corset. His back arches and that’s too much, Newt shudders and drops his head and moans into Hermann’s shoulder as he comes. So hard it’s like being kicked in the head, pleasure that’s almost pain and he drops and shudders his last inside Hermann. So much his eyes close and the world goes slightly fuzzy around the edges-
He slips free and mumbles his displeasure against a hard edge of whalebone. Hermann runs his fingers through his hair and Newt looks up. He can’t stop smiling. His body is warm and lax and everything is wonderful. Hermann is smiling too. He’s trying to be aloof and superior and it’s failing completely and he just looks slightly silly. “You ruined my clothes.”
“We ruined your clothes.” Newt corrects, tracing wet patterns across the silk of the corset. “Your stockings should be fine.”
“Look at them!” Hermann lifts his good leg to demonstrate. The fabric is a mess of runs, even a tear here and there where the silk caught on Newt’s scales.
“I’ll get you new ones.” Newt rolls off him, stretches. "I’ll buy you twenty, and lace you into the corsets, one after the other.”
“Just get me out of this one.” Hermann turns on his side to let Newt reach the knots. “Any longer and I will never sing again.”
“Shh.” Newt starts untying the cords. “There.” He works the corset open, and Hermann breaths a deep sigh of relief.
“Finally.” The corset comes off. The ruined stockings are peeled off, and the panties land on the floor. They curl up together hot and damp and sticky.
“There’s a blizzard. How can we get your clothes through that?”
“They have my measurements at the shop.” Hermann kisses his forehead under the fringe. “We can send out for new ones.” Newt feels him smile. “We can spend the whole blizzard trying them on.”
Newt kisses Hermann, their lips swollen and wet and burning. “I hope it lasts for weeks.”