Fapping Fic: Ada Vessalius
And now, for fapping fic! I'll post the ones I did for a kink-meme here too, eventually, but we'll start with Miss Ada instead, for now!
Warning for, well, fapping.
There's no one in the room. No one lurking outside the door, no one peering in the windows. She's made sure of those things already, checked and rechecked, made absolutely sure that her modesty will be intact. Yet the blush on the young lady's skin and the furtiveness of her movements are still signs that she is uncomfortable, worried, unsure.
She settles herself on the edge of her bed, restless, one small hand picking at the sheet a little as she reaches out with the other for the prize that she has smuggled home with her. It's such a small thing, wadded up like this, pressed into a pillowcase in just such a way to keep it above notice from the maid who had come to help her prepare for bed earlier. Just a jacket, smaller than the long coat that the Pandora members wear, more form than function, definitely.
The first thing she does is bring the material to her face, breathe deep. There's a faint tinge of blood there, but somehow, it seems that had always been in the scent, his scent. She's never been fooled that he wasn't the sort of man that killed, after all, and she's long since accepted that metallic tinge when she buried her face against his shirt, slipped soft shapely arms around his neck.
A stray strand of blond hair catches her eye, and she pauses for a moment, tilts her head as she inspects it, trying to decide if it's hers or his. His, she decides after a moment, twining the single bright thread this way and that, catching the light. She makes an attempt to tuck it into the jacket pocket, though it's probably pointless, will be lost and forgotten.
Well. That's all right. She's distracted now anyway, standing there in a light chemise, her body fully released from the usual bondage of a 'proper lady', lacking corset and skirt and stockings and knickers and all those layers that stand between her and the world, every day. Here, alone in her room, his jacket wrapped up in her arms, she closes her ears to the words that she has overhead, closes her mind to the knowledge that he is a traitor and he is a murderer.
No, she lets all those things go, and simply breathes in his scent, masculine and slightly bloody, with a hint of cigarette smoke that she's quite sure belongs to someone else, who perhaps he pushed his way close enough to that the smell seeped in....
If he would only push that close to her, of his own volition. If he could only see her, now, but she can't even know where he is. Not now, when everything has changed so much, the whole world thrown out of order and the only thing she has to hold onto is the cloth in her hands, the hard buttons that press against her chest, indent themselves against the delicate fabric of the chemise as she holds the coat close.
Later, she'll take one of those buttons, wind that piece of hair around it, and do a divining spell. Later, she'll take action, use the arts that belong to her only of her own will to find him.
Now, however...
She reaches for a pillow on the bed, wraps the sleeves of the coat around it, tucking them over the plush cover tightly. She settles both hands against the headboard of the bed, nudges the pillow forward a little with her knee, and then lowers her body over it, knees spread to either side.
It's not perfect, not right away. There's an art to this, and the perfect place to line her pelvis up against the pillow isn't the same as where she'd want a real lover, not exactly. There's a tightening to her thighs that is necessary, to make the right friction, to cause her nether lips to rub just so against that part inside... ah!
She doesn't know what it's called, or where exactly to find it, because the idea of actually touching herself in those places is too taboo, even for this young woman who delves into the mysteries of the universe, who hides treasure troves of old tomes, who chants spells in the darkness of night alone.
No, the mystery that lies between her legs is too dangerous, even for her, subversive feminine darkness that might swallow whole the purity that is prized in such a young noblewoman, if she teases it. This man she longs for has not yet touched that place either, but oh, the thought of it! The thought of herself pressed against his lean form, just so, just this way, riding high on his thighs as her own grip so possessively at him, as she grips him inside and out, catches herself on his body and holds on, holds on so desperately.
"You have to come back," she whispers, ardently, into the ear of a figment, her lips moving against the shell just as his have moved against her own so many times, with all the sweet words he has used to woo her.
"You have to come back to me," and those words too are a spell, the slick fluid between her thighs an oblation, the heave of her breasts and bounces of her hips against the warming-rough fabric a spirit dance.
She doesn't know the word for that moment when her entire body rocks, when her lips press together tight to hold back noise, when her belly tenses up so hard she feels it might touch her spine, when the roaring in her ears blocks out everything. She doesn't know the word for it, isn't sure of the vocabulary of passion, the language of sex lost to her if not the act.
That's immaterial, of course, because it does shake her all the same, all through her body, the barely-there silk of her single garment clinging tight against skin, sweaty-darkened. She has no name for this feeling, but as she collapses forward, tugging the pillow from between her legs and hugging it to her chest instead, letting the scent of her own sex and his scent mingle in her nose, as she clutches, clings.
"... good night, Vincent."
Warning for, well, fapping.
There's no one in the room. No one lurking outside the door, no one peering in the windows. She's made sure of those things already, checked and rechecked, made absolutely sure that her modesty will be intact. Yet the blush on the young lady's skin and the furtiveness of her movements are still signs that she is uncomfortable, worried, unsure.
She settles herself on the edge of her bed, restless, one small hand picking at the sheet a little as she reaches out with the other for the prize that she has smuggled home with her. It's such a small thing, wadded up like this, pressed into a pillowcase in just such a way to keep it above notice from the maid who had come to help her prepare for bed earlier. Just a jacket, smaller than the long coat that the Pandora members wear, more form than function, definitely.
The first thing she does is bring the material to her face, breathe deep. There's a faint tinge of blood there, but somehow, it seems that had always been in the scent, his scent. She's never been fooled that he wasn't the sort of man that killed, after all, and she's long since accepted that metallic tinge when she buried her face against his shirt, slipped soft shapely arms around his neck.
A stray strand of blond hair catches her eye, and she pauses for a moment, tilts her head as she inspects it, trying to decide if it's hers or his. His, she decides after a moment, twining the single bright thread this way and that, catching the light. She makes an attempt to tuck it into the jacket pocket, though it's probably pointless, will be lost and forgotten.
Well. That's all right. She's distracted now anyway, standing there in a light chemise, her body fully released from the usual bondage of a 'proper lady', lacking corset and skirt and stockings and knickers and all those layers that stand between her and the world, every day. Here, alone in her room, his jacket wrapped up in her arms, she closes her ears to the words that she has overhead, closes her mind to the knowledge that he is a traitor and he is a murderer.
No, she lets all those things go, and simply breathes in his scent, masculine and slightly bloody, with a hint of cigarette smoke that she's quite sure belongs to someone else, who perhaps he pushed his way close enough to that the smell seeped in....
If he would only push that close to her, of his own volition. If he could only see her, now, but she can't even know where he is. Not now, when everything has changed so much, the whole world thrown out of order and the only thing she has to hold onto is the cloth in her hands, the hard buttons that press against her chest, indent themselves against the delicate fabric of the chemise as she holds the coat close.
Later, she'll take one of those buttons, wind that piece of hair around it, and do a divining spell. Later, she'll take action, use the arts that belong to her only of her own will to find him.
Now, however...
She reaches for a pillow on the bed, wraps the sleeves of the coat around it, tucking them over the plush cover tightly. She settles both hands against the headboard of the bed, nudges the pillow forward a little with her knee, and then lowers her body over it, knees spread to either side.
It's not perfect, not right away. There's an art to this, and the perfect place to line her pelvis up against the pillow isn't the same as where she'd want a real lover, not exactly. There's a tightening to her thighs that is necessary, to make the right friction, to cause her nether lips to rub just so against that part inside... ah!
She doesn't know what it's called, or where exactly to find it, because the idea of actually touching herself in those places is too taboo, even for this young woman who delves into the mysteries of the universe, who hides treasure troves of old tomes, who chants spells in the darkness of night alone.
No, the mystery that lies between her legs is too dangerous, even for her, subversive feminine darkness that might swallow whole the purity that is prized in such a young noblewoman, if she teases it. This man she longs for has not yet touched that place either, but oh, the thought of it! The thought of herself pressed against his lean form, just so, just this way, riding high on his thighs as her own grip so possessively at him, as she grips him inside and out, catches herself on his body and holds on, holds on so desperately.
"You have to come back," she whispers, ardently, into the ear of a figment, her lips moving against the shell just as his have moved against her own so many times, with all the sweet words he has used to woo her.
"You have to come back to me," and those words too are a spell, the slick fluid between her thighs an oblation, the heave of her breasts and bounces of her hips against the warming-rough fabric a spirit dance.
She doesn't know the word for that moment when her entire body rocks, when her lips press together tight to hold back noise, when her belly tenses up so hard she feels it might touch her spine, when the roaring in her ears blocks out everything. She doesn't know the word for it, isn't sure of the vocabulary of passion, the language of sex lost to her if not the act.
That's immaterial, of course, because it does shake her all the same, all through her body, the barely-there silk of her single garment clinging tight against skin, sweaty-darkened. She has no name for this feeling, but as she collapses forward, tugging the pillow from between her legs and hugging it to her chest instead, letting the scent of her own sex and his scent mingle in her nose, as she clutches, clings.
"... good night, Vincent."