Skirts and Corsets - Heroes - Adam/Monica
Title: Skirts and Corsets
Pairing: Adam/Monica
Word Count: 1643
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the "historical roleplays" square of my kink bingo card. Established relationship.
Summary: Monica dresses up for Adam to remind him of the old days.
The dress is exquisite in its detail. Perhaps, in his day, he hadn't seen such fine fabrics against dark skin, and perhaps the ladies of his time knew better than to be left alone with a man of his reputation, but he recognises the style perfectly. His hand rests upon her tight waist, skimming up over the fierce corset that bound her lungs and did very little to conceal her bosom.
"You are extraordinary," he murmurs to make her laugh in response, her hand resting against his shoulder.
"I don't know how women are meant to breathe in these things," Monica says. "Tight as hell. I had to get Micah to help me tie it up."
Adam kisses the full bow of her mouth, unable to stop himself, but he is proud of his self-restraint: he hasn't ravished her yet. "Remind me to thank him some day," he says. His hand trails to the top of her bodice, skimming over the material that protected her full breasts. "And I think I ought to get on with thanking you right away."
She giggles and he loves the sound: the innocence no longer grates on his ears in the way that it had in the beginning. To begin with, her wide-eyed naivety had frustrated him when they had first met. He'd longed to crush it with the reality of this world, but it won't be put out.
"I thought you might like it," she says. "A little reminder of the past. Your past."
"I was never quite good enough to meet anyone like you in my time," he says - which is his own way of unloading a thousand tales of woe and poverty. He had left England behind as a young man to seek his fortune elsewhere; the rich ladies and luxurious dresses of English gentlewomen were not his to indulge in.
"Were you wicked enough instead?" she asks, taking a step away from him. She takes hold of both of his hands and leads him with her towards the bed: their bed.
She lands with a bounce, and he steps in as tightly as the miles of material will allow him to do. "I think you are far too dirty-minded to be a real Lady," Adam says, bowing his head to steal another kiss from her lips, as sweet as candied apples. "Have you stolen your mistress's best dress? Put it on to corrupt poor, pure men like me?"
She purrs against him, her hand travelling over his body, down onto his ass where she squeezes him through his jeans. If he had known what she had planned, he would have acquired a costume of his own; it feels wrong to take his mind back into history while his body remains so persistently present-day.
"Are you really so pure, sir?" she asks. Her hands reach for his belt and begin to unbuckle it, tugging hard so that his hips thrust under her momentum. "You sure don't seem so pure to me."
"Certainly. You're a villain and a witch," Adam insists. She waggles her eyebrows at him. "Yes, a witch. I'm nothing but a poor church-goer."
"At my mercy?" She certainly sounds intrigued by the possibilities that await them. "Yeah. I can do anything I want with you. You're not strong enough to stop me."
It's hard for her to sound evil or early-modern when she is an inch from giggling again, but he doesn't care. She pushes up her skirts and he can feel the whisper of her bare thighs against his jeans; her underwear is far from period-appropriate, but as his fingers brush against the damp patch that covers her mound he doesn't give a damn.
"Nothing can stop a witch," he agrees absent-mindedly, as he begins to rub and stroke at her through the material of her panties.
"Damn right," she agrees, slipping open his trousers and pulling at his boxers - just far enough to make him spring free, hard from the mere sight of her like this, her bosom swelling within the corset.
He lies back as she pushes her underwear to the side and mounts him, sliding his unsheathed cock inside her young body in one wet movement. She's slick and dripping around him, as turned on as he is, and her hands brace against his clothed chest. "Fuck, I'm never gonna get used to that," she whispers, breathing the words into the air with her eyes firmly closed.
Smirking despite the distraction of hot, tight friction, Adam grasps hold of her hips and says, "I hope not, milady."
He's lost track of what roles they are playing now, of who is playing who, but as long as she keeps fucking him like that he doesn't think he cares. The layers of her skirts billow out around them, disguising all obscenities from view, but he can still feel her around him, above him, hot and talented and his in any way he wants her.
As she rides his cock, her breasts bounce and flow with movement, dragging his eyes to them with every rise and fall. He's an immortal; he has seen his fair share of impressive chests in his time, but Monica's remains singularly entertaining, an exact handful.
He reaches up to grasp hold of one, even though through the thick corset he can feel very little other than embroidery. His fingers, however, skim the brim of her chest and he shifts up, over her cleavage, and digs his nails into the top of the corset as if he might rip it away through strength alone.
It's tempting, so tempting, when she is on top of him and seeking her own pleasure, providing him with heady riches that no one else could dream of.
"You're stunning," he tells her, eyes wide, mind gone. "Stunning."
"Yeah, shit. God," she says, eyes tightly shut and her head thrown back. It exposes the line of her neck, smooth and expansive, asking to be tasted.
Yet he can move, can't sit up, can only lie back and take whatever she is willing to give him; he surrenders himself entirely to her power, gasping for air through his open mouth while he thanks the fates for leading him to her.
She speeds up, rolling her hips in a way that makes his eyes roll back in their sockets. "C'mon, squire," she pants. "I know you're close."
Squire. The word captures his imagination and ignites - and he comes, groaning, inside her, filling her with his seed as she continues to rock on top of him, wringing him dry with the tight friction of her body. "Monica," he pants. "You'll be the death of me."
And she won't - he doesn't mean that, not him. He's going to live forever.
If she keeps this up, however, he won't be doing so with his sanity in tact.
He grabs hold of her and flips her over onto her back in a whirlwind of skirts and spare material. She lands on her back and he knows that she's only been moved because she wanted to be - Monica is the kind of woman who doesn't get pushed around. In an eye-blink, she could have him bent into a thousand bone-cracking positions. He should be more careful about what she watches on television.
He dives beneath her skirts, his cheeks still flushed from the force of his own orgasm, his cock softening between his legs. Her panties are still on, merely pushed aside, and her cunt is wet and waiting, filled with his own come. It makes him groan in delight when he sees it, so thoroughly despoiled and marked as his. She laughs at the sound and nudges him with her thigh, unwilling to wait.
When he attacks her with his tongue, he can taste himself inside her, around her, staining and mingling with her own tangy juices. She moans and shifts her hips towards him: always so insistent, so impatient.
He grasps hold of her hips and keeps the lace of her underwear out of his way with a set of strong fingers holding them aside as he licks and sucks at her pussy, moving upwards to focus his attention on her clit instead. It makes her cry out at first, too intense, but he knows her well by now: he knows how to draw it out, but he also knows how to make her climax fast, how to make it slam into her with enough force to leave her breathless for at least twenty minutes.
He sucks down hard on her clit and makes her cry again, and he can hear the sound of her chest heaving for air. It makes him wish that the barrier of material wasn't in his way: he wants to be able to see her as he makes her come undone, as he pulls away her composure and leaves her helpless for him. She's such a strong, powerful woman; it's natural to want to break her down.
Natural for him.
She starts swearing under her breath, a frantic chant, and as he scrapes his teeth over her tender nub she tenses and tightens for him, spasming and jerking as the orgasm hits her - only her first of the night, if he has anything to do with it. He draws it out, sucking and licking at her slit until she kicks gently at his hip to make him back off.
"That's enough," she says, weak and tired. "I can't take any more."
He slides back up her body and she rolls over, demanding that he helps her to loosen the corset that is binding her breath. His nimble fingers hurry to do so, and it brings him back in time, remembering other women and other debauched nights.
Nothing like this.
Watching Monica's face and the mischievous glint in her eyes, he knows that in a hundred years there has never been anyone quite like this.
Pairing: Adam/Monica
Word Count: 1643
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the "historical roleplays" square of my kink bingo card. Established relationship.
Summary: Monica dresses up for Adam to remind him of the old days.
The dress is exquisite in its detail. Perhaps, in his day, he hadn't seen such fine fabrics against dark skin, and perhaps the ladies of his time knew better than to be left alone with a man of his reputation, but he recognises the style perfectly. His hand rests upon her tight waist, skimming up over the fierce corset that bound her lungs and did very little to conceal her bosom.
"You are extraordinary," he murmurs to make her laugh in response, her hand resting against his shoulder.
"I don't know how women are meant to breathe in these things," Monica says. "Tight as hell. I had to get Micah to help me tie it up."
Adam kisses the full bow of her mouth, unable to stop himself, but he is proud of his self-restraint: he hasn't ravished her yet. "Remind me to thank him some day," he says. His hand trails to the top of her bodice, skimming over the material that protected her full breasts. "And I think I ought to get on with thanking you right away."
She giggles and he loves the sound: the innocence no longer grates on his ears in the way that it had in the beginning. To begin with, her wide-eyed naivety had frustrated him when they had first met. He'd longed to crush it with the reality of this world, but it won't be put out.
"I thought you might like it," she says. "A little reminder of the past. Your past."
"I was never quite good enough to meet anyone like you in my time," he says - which is his own way of unloading a thousand tales of woe and poverty. He had left England behind as a young man to seek his fortune elsewhere; the rich ladies and luxurious dresses of English gentlewomen were not his to indulge in.
"Were you wicked enough instead?" she asks, taking a step away from him. She takes hold of both of his hands and leads him with her towards the bed: their bed.
She lands with a bounce, and he steps in as tightly as the miles of material will allow him to do. "I think you are far too dirty-minded to be a real Lady," Adam says, bowing his head to steal another kiss from her lips, as sweet as candied apples. "Have you stolen your mistress's best dress? Put it on to corrupt poor, pure men like me?"
She purrs against him, her hand travelling over his body, down onto his ass where she squeezes him through his jeans. If he had known what she had planned, he would have acquired a costume of his own; it feels wrong to take his mind back into history while his body remains so persistently present-day.
"Are you really so pure, sir?" she asks. Her hands reach for his belt and begin to unbuckle it, tugging hard so that his hips thrust under her momentum. "You sure don't seem so pure to me."
"Certainly. You're a villain and a witch," Adam insists. She waggles her eyebrows at him. "Yes, a witch. I'm nothing but a poor church-goer."
"At my mercy?" She certainly sounds intrigued by the possibilities that await them. "Yeah. I can do anything I want with you. You're not strong enough to stop me."
It's hard for her to sound evil or early-modern when she is an inch from giggling again, but he doesn't care. She pushes up her skirts and he can feel the whisper of her bare thighs against his jeans; her underwear is far from period-appropriate, but as his fingers brush against the damp patch that covers her mound he doesn't give a damn.
"Nothing can stop a witch," he agrees absent-mindedly, as he begins to rub and stroke at her through the material of her panties.
"Damn right," she agrees, slipping open his trousers and pulling at his boxers - just far enough to make him spring free, hard from the mere sight of her like this, her bosom swelling within the corset.
He lies back as she pushes her underwear to the side and mounts him, sliding his unsheathed cock inside her young body in one wet movement. She's slick and dripping around him, as turned on as he is, and her hands brace against his clothed chest. "Fuck, I'm never gonna get used to that," she whispers, breathing the words into the air with her eyes firmly closed.
Smirking despite the distraction of hot, tight friction, Adam grasps hold of her hips and says, "I hope not, milady."
He's lost track of what roles they are playing now, of who is playing who, but as long as she keeps fucking him like that he doesn't think he cares. The layers of her skirts billow out around them, disguising all obscenities from view, but he can still feel her around him, above him, hot and talented and his in any way he wants her.
As she rides his cock, her breasts bounce and flow with movement, dragging his eyes to them with every rise and fall. He's an immortal; he has seen his fair share of impressive chests in his time, but Monica's remains singularly entertaining, an exact handful.
He reaches up to grasp hold of one, even though through the thick corset he can feel very little other than embroidery. His fingers, however, skim the brim of her chest and he shifts up, over her cleavage, and digs his nails into the top of the corset as if he might rip it away through strength alone.
It's tempting, so tempting, when she is on top of him and seeking her own pleasure, providing him with heady riches that no one else could dream of.
"You're stunning," he tells her, eyes wide, mind gone. "Stunning."
"Yeah, shit. God," she says, eyes tightly shut and her head thrown back. It exposes the line of her neck, smooth and expansive, asking to be tasted.
Yet he can move, can't sit up, can only lie back and take whatever she is willing to give him; he surrenders himself entirely to her power, gasping for air through his open mouth while he thanks the fates for leading him to her.
She speeds up, rolling her hips in a way that makes his eyes roll back in their sockets. "C'mon, squire," she pants. "I know you're close."
Squire. The word captures his imagination and ignites - and he comes, groaning, inside her, filling her with his seed as she continues to rock on top of him, wringing him dry with the tight friction of her body. "Monica," he pants. "You'll be the death of me."
And she won't - he doesn't mean that, not him. He's going to live forever.
If she keeps this up, however, he won't be doing so with his sanity in tact.
He grabs hold of her and flips her over onto her back in a whirlwind of skirts and spare material. She lands on her back and he knows that she's only been moved because she wanted to be - Monica is the kind of woman who doesn't get pushed around. In an eye-blink, she could have him bent into a thousand bone-cracking positions. He should be more careful about what she watches on television.
He dives beneath her skirts, his cheeks still flushed from the force of his own orgasm, his cock softening between his legs. Her panties are still on, merely pushed aside, and her cunt is wet and waiting, filled with his own come. It makes him groan in delight when he sees it, so thoroughly despoiled and marked as his. She laughs at the sound and nudges him with her thigh, unwilling to wait.
When he attacks her with his tongue, he can taste himself inside her, around her, staining and mingling with her own tangy juices. She moans and shifts her hips towards him: always so insistent, so impatient.
He grasps hold of her hips and keeps the lace of her underwear out of his way with a set of strong fingers holding them aside as he licks and sucks at her pussy, moving upwards to focus his attention on her clit instead. It makes her cry out at first, too intense, but he knows her well by now: he knows how to draw it out, but he also knows how to make her climax fast, how to make it slam into her with enough force to leave her breathless for at least twenty minutes.
He sucks down hard on her clit and makes her cry again, and he can hear the sound of her chest heaving for air. It makes him wish that the barrier of material wasn't in his way: he wants to be able to see her as he makes her come undone, as he pulls away her composure and leaves her helpless for him. She's such a strong, powerful woman; it's natural to want to break her down.
Natural for him.
She starts swearing under her breath, a frantic chant, and as he scrapes his teeth over her tender nub she tenses and tightens for him, spasming and jerking as the orgasm hits her - only her first of the night, if he has anything to do with it. He draws it out, sucking and licking at her slit until she kicks gently at his hip to make him back off.
"That's enough," she says, weak and tired. "I can't take any more."
He slides back up her body and she rolls over, demanding that he helps her to loosen the corset that is binding her breath. His nimble fingers hurry to do so, and it brings him back in time, remembering other women and other debauched nights.
Nothing like this.
Watching Monica's face and the mischievous glint in her eyes, he knows that in a hundred years there has never been anyone quite like this.