showtunesdream:

yankeecountess:

Downton Abbey Modern AU
“Farmer’s Market Hot” Autumn Aesthetic 2 of 3

Anthony Strallan

**images not mine

My humble addition to the glorious foundation by @yankeecountess, dedicated to that incomparable lady, whose picsets
and headcanons are sublime. Thanks for letting me scribble this little piece.

From the Countess:  SO
HERE’S THE BACKSTORY Sir Anthony owns an orchard and he’s always loved
gardening as well as beekeeping and he’s concerned about honeybees and is very
‘green’ in his living so he decides to sell honey in all its glorious forms at
the local farmers market to help promote the importance of honeybees and
because he follows a strict ‘waste not’ rule he even learns how to make beeswax
candles and sells them which attracts a certain Lady Edith drawn to his
idealism for making the world better.

*Sweeter the Taste*

Edith savored the sound of her boots crunching over a carpet
of brightly colored leaves, grinning as she inhaled the delicious aroma of woodsmoke
and dirt and chill. She’d been coming to the Downton farmer’s market since
August, but Autumn had finally arrived. After work she’d jumped in her car and
driven out for a dinner of farm-raised pork washed down with hand-pressed
cider. Now, she thought as she eyed a
tall figure at one end of the row of stalls, it was time for dessert.

She giggled internally at such a thought. Maybe she’d had
too much cider at the apple stall. But it was undeniably true that over the past
few weeks she’d developed a crush on the affable, erudite, compassionate
beekeeper who sold beeswax candles and honey with sparkling blue eyes and a kind
smile. The crush had become an infatuation, and the infatuation had become a
rather x-rated dream or two. So she’d decided. This evening she was going to
find out if a mature, handsome, purpose-driven man like Anthony Strallan could
be at all interested in a plain uninteresting creature like her.

He was certainly most attentive when she came by, showing
her the best of his wares; excited to discuss his bees (whom he treated almost
as children), and even soliciting her opinion on wax forms and ideas to expand
into soap. Surely that meant she was more than just another customer. Or
perhaps it simply meant that he loved his work, his crusade to save the bees. A
tender smile spread across her face. She loved that about him, the way he
optimistically battled to better his corner of the world, the way he believed
that his actions would inspire others, the way they had inspired her. Not only did she have almost two shelves full of candles
she’d purchased at his stall, she’d also become a sustaining member of a local nature
conservancy and written an article on ‘homegrown conservation’ for The Sketch. It was impossible not to be
drawn in to his passion, especially when his eyes lit up and his large hands
got going and he grinned that boyish grin that wasn’t quite straight on one
side… Edith dipped her head in another private smile. God, she was so lost.

He was settling the day’s accounts when she approached; swiftly
shuffling stacks of bills and paper-clipping them together. She waited until he’d
snapped the lid shut on an olive colored cashbox and then knocked on one of the
wooden poles holding up his tent. His head snapped up, and his face lit with a
broad grin when he saw her. He had the kind of smile that could warm a woman
even if she was buried in ten feet of snow, and she felt that warmth fill and
soothe her entire being. Like honey, she thought, as she crossed the distance
between them, like warm honey…

“Hel-lo!” He said cheerily. “What can I do for you this
evening? I was just about to close up,” this last was conversational, but Edith
felt a pang of doubt. Had he sensed her attraction and was politely trying to
tell her to—as a beekeeper would put it–buzz off?

“Oh, well, if you’re on your way out…I don’t want to keep
you too late…” she demurred.

“Not at all!” he asserted genially. “Won’t be going home for
ages—got to make sure all the bees get their teeth brushed and their jammies
on,” he joked.

It was such a mix of corny humor and dweeby sentiment for
his charges that she couldn’t suppress a bubble of affection as she laughed.

“Well then in that
case…”

He began to move towards a tray of beeswax pillars. “More
candles perhaps?”

Heaven forbid
Edith thought, the image of her overstuffed bookshelf bright in her mind’s eye.

“Actually, tonight I thought I’d finally taste this famous
honey everyone’s talking about.”

“A-haaa! An excellent notion!”  He stiffened his spine and waved one long arm
in the manner of a maitre’d. “Right this way Madame!”

She laughed again, and he chuckled. He was one of those
people who truly enjoyed other people, who saw the best in them, just like he
could be a doting papa to thousands of buzzing insects. It was that which gave
her hope that he might just be able to muster some attraction for a person just
as awkward and abrasive. She followed as he led her to the back of his small tent,
where facing shelves displayed jars of gleaming amber honey.

“We have several varieties for Madame this evening,” he
said, selecting a jar with a flourish. “Now, if you would be so good as to give
me your hand.” He stretched his own towards her, palm up, while the other held
the jar.

Edith frowned in puzzlement, but yielded her right hand,
placing it atop his. His hand was large and wonderfully warm, his palm
roughened by farmer’s gloves, and she couldn’t help imagining how those callus-smooth
fingers might feel sliding over her bare skin. The thought sent another wave of
heat through her, her senses roused and reaching for more of his touch. She
curled her fingertips infinitesimally, subtly caressing the thickened pad at
the base of his thumb.

His lips twitched, and strong fingers gently urged her hand to
turn, so that it sat palm up like his. As she watched, he lowered the spout of
the honey jar and placed a generous drop on the pad of her index finger.

Then his hand was gone, and something in her wanted to stamp
her foot in protest, like a child whose treat had been taken away. She suppressed
a disappointed sigh and brought her finger to her lips.

A pleasant familiar sweetness melted into her tongue, underpinned
by hints of a crisp green.

“Mmmm,” she said approvingly.

He beamed, unable to keep the pride from his expression. But
it was less arrogance and more delight in her
enjoyment.

“We have only just
begun,” he announced, turning to dive his hand theatrically to select another
bottle. This time he took her index finger between his own, and somehow the
slight manipulation of that small part of her body, the sure but gentle grip of
his long, deft fingers sent another current of pleasurable yearning shimmering
through her. It hummed in her chest and thrummed through her veins, making her
limbs feel light and agile, as if they might float up to touch him as she so
wanted to do. Instead, she lifted her finger and tasted the honey, this time
with a light floral bouquet.

Before she had finished licking her lips he had another
bottle, an orange honey, and then there was a lavender honey, and one with a
slight buttery flavor that he said was good with toast. As they proceeded through
his stock, his showmanship began to diminish, and she became aware after her sixth
taste that he was watching her intensely. She noticed in her periphery the way
his eyes followed her finger to her mouth, and how he exhaled an almost inaudible
sigh at her little hums of praise as each honey hit her taste buds. Could it be—miracle
of miracles–he was attracted to her?

With her next taste she decided to test her theory, put on a
little show. The routine was the same, extend finger, receive sample, taste.
But this time she all but suckled her finger, drawing her lips together in a
manner that was just this side of overtly sensual, and licking them in a way
that was decidedly on the other side. When she looked up she caught a glimpse
of a rather carnivorous expression before he covered it with a genial smile. When
he spoke, his voice sounded deeper and rougher than it had only minutes before.

“And last but not least, my personal favorite: good,
old-fashioned, Yorkshire Special.”

Emboldened by the results of her experiment, Edith moved a
step closer, as if to examine the label on the jar he was holding. The narrow
space closed in on them, the air between their bodies charging and humming like
a swarm of his precious bees. She could just feel the solid heat of his broad
chest mere centimeters from her own; if she leaned forward she’d be blissfully
nestled in one of his lean arms…

She smiled coyly up at him.

“Well if it’s your favorite, I guess I’d better try it then,”
her tone was nonchalant, but her voice was low and rich, underscored with
sensual purpose.

He held out his hand, palm up. Never taking her eyes from
his, she placed hers in it—a silent offer, a subtle ‘take me I’m yours.’ He
held her gaze for several seconds, his breath slow and deep in his chest. Then
he bent to place a final drop on her finger, this time letting his index finger
stroke a small, brief caress along the back of her wrist to her knuckles before
dropping away. Her body’s reaction was immediate and intense, heat and hunger and
him.

Edith examined her finger, her senses so flooded that her
brain had temporarily forgotten what she was supposed to do. Then suddenly her course
of action became crystal clear. She closed her thumb and forefinger, rubbing
the sticky nectar between them. She raised her thumb and traced a slow line along
one side of his wide lower lip, smearing it with honey. Then she stretched up
on her toes and curled her lips around his, licking with a savoring swipe of
her tongue. Part moan, almost a growl, she gave a satisfied “mmmm.”

When she retreated far enough to catch his eyes, they were
wide with surprise, but behind the shock something kindled. She held his gaze
as she brought her index finger up, painting his upper lip. Then she rose and
kissed her way from his cheek, to the crease of his smile, to his cupid’s bow
where she seized upon the morsel of honey, sucking gently as her tongue stroked
across the sweet v of his lip, swiping beneath to steal a deeper taste. This
time he moaned appreciatively, and in a flash his mouth was on hers, nipping,
suckling, tasting, adoring.

She slid her arms up to cradle his shoulders, and he wrapped
her in the tender vice of his embrace as his lips sought more and more of her,
sweet wild honey that drove him mad with wanting.

“Oh, er—“ a voice reached Edith’s ears. “Sorry, I’ll just…”

Warm breaths brushed her wet lips as Anthony broke the kiss,
but lingered with his forehead pressed to hers.

“Evening Tom, what can I do for you?” he said this amiably
enough, but his low volume, and the fact that he never looked up from where his
nose nuzzled hers, seemed to negate his doing anything for anyone just at that
moment.

“Oh, I just…came to see about that ride back but…I can er…
see that you’re… Uh yes…I’ll just be….”

Edith craned her neck toward the retreating Irishman.

“Oh Tom, is it?” He turned over his shoulder. “You’re the
pumpkin fellow my sister is so mad over. I just wanted to let you kn-ow,” Edith’s
voice quavered slightly as Anthony’s lips found her neck, “this whole penchant
for kissing handsome men thing runs in the family. Also, I left my sister by
the car.”

Tom grinned. “Right.”

He must’ve gone off in search of Sybil, though Edith couldn’t
be sure. She wasn’t paying attention. Anthony‘s lips were closing in upon
hers, and she had more honey to taste…