Fic: Personal Gain [Alphas]
Title: Personal Gain
Fandom: Alphas
Character: Rachel Pirzad
Rating: R
A/N: For the "Sensation Play" square on
kink_bingo. Thanks to
aphrodite_mine for the prompt and beta.
They’re not supposed to use their abilities for personal gain. It’s a rule. It’s the rule.
The term “personal gain”, however, leaves a lot of grey space to explore.
Nina is out, doing whatever it is that people with friends and social lives do, and Rachel is standing in her room, breathing slowly.
The lights are off, but it doesn’t matter. She has already let her vision slip to the back of her mind. It is irrelevant, for this.
Sounds blur and echo until they are nothing as she gently puts away her hearing. She will make sounds of her own, but they will be lost.
The scent of her own body is so strong that, for a moment, it overwhelms everything else. The dark, heavy smell welling up in anticipation between her legs collides with her face like a warm exhale. She can taste it, can taste her own need in the particles of the air that drift between her lips.
Rachel takes a deep breath and lets those senses go until there is nothing in the entire universe but the open expanse of her skin and the million ways in which it is, at that moment, being touched.
The grain of the wood floor is uneven and cold against her feet. Sweat adheres her to the ground in tiny instants of cohesion that burst at the slightest motion. The hair follicles prickle on her long, bare legs, and the empty pores between them feel like great expanses of water, rippled by the soft breeze of air through the room. The fabric of her skirt is rough, rasping at the tops of her knees, scraping like sandpaper when it shifts to touch her thighs.
The swish of her soft, satin shirt is almost unbearable as she moves so so slowly to slip her fingers beneath the waistband. With a quick gesture, she pushes the skirt past her hips and lets it fall to the floor, a wild, tumbling landslide of stitches and seams down her legs, relishing the rush of air that flows up her body in its passing.
The room is cold. Nina keeps the big apartment at refrigerator temperatures, but Rachel is creating her own heat, now. Her skin is a desert, hot and open, and she shuffles dunes away to find the oasis.
Her nipples feel the fabric move, even through her bra, as she slips the soft shirt over her head and lets it flutter to the floor. She takes a moment to indulge, to let the very tips of her fingers drift from her navel upward, savoring the spark of sensation as they skim over her chest. The ends of her hair burn her where they trail innocently over her shoulders.
There is a pinch and scratch, exquisitely sharp, as she unhooks her bra, and an indescribable aching as her breasts at last fall free.
She stands unmoving, for a moment, breathing, feeling her body stretch and settle around the in and out of air through her lungs. She could cry or come, just standing there, breathing.
Her skin is hot, but her palms are scorching as they press against her sides. They stick and stutter as she slides them down the length of her soft, unsteady legs, pulling her underwear down with them. At last, every vestige of clothing is on the floor, and she steps slowly, blindly toward the bed.
The sheets are fine cotton, stolen or bought with stolen money, and Rachel can feel every catch and pull in the 1500 threads. The patterns in the stitching press into her like brands as she lays back. Every dip and rise in the wide, soft pillow cradles her head in its depths. She can feel the tiny pieces of grit, left over from her shoes, grinding between her heels and the bed.
At last, at long last, she lets her legs fall apart and slips a single finger into the soft, dark space that no one but her has ever known.
Soundless, she sighs.
Fandom: Alphas
Character: Rachel Pirzad
Rating: R
A/N: For the "Sensation Play" square on
kink_bingo. Thanks to
aphrodite_mine for the prompt and beta.
They’re not supposed to use their abilities for personal gain. It’s a rule. It’s the rule.
The term “personal gain”, however, leaves a lot of grey space to explore.
Nina is out, doing whatever it is that people with friends and social lives do, and Rachel is standing in her room, breathing slowly.
The lights are off, but it doesn’t matter. She has already let her vision slip to the back of her mind. It is irrelevant, for this.
Sounds blur and echo until they are nothing as she gently puts away her hearing. She will make sounds of her own, but they will be lost.
The scent of her own body is so strong that, for a moment, it overwhelms everything else. The dark, heavy smell welling up in anticipation between her legs collides with her face like a warm exhale. She can taste it, can taste her own need in the particles of the air that drift between her lips.
Rachel takes a deep breath and lets those senses go until there is nothing in the entire universe but the open expanse of her skin and the million ways in which it is, at that moment, being touched.
The grain of the wood floor is uneven and cold against her feet. Sweat adheres her to the ground in tiny instants of cohesion that burst at the slightest motion. The hair follicles prickle on her long, bare legs, and the empty pores between them feel like great expanses of water, rippled by the soft breeze of air through the room. The fabric of her skirt is rough, rasping at the tops of her knees, scraping like sandpaper when it shifts to touch her thighs.
The swish of her soft, satin shirt is almost unbearable as she moves so so slowly to slip her fingers beneath the waistband. With a quick gesture, she pushes the skirt past her hips and lets it fall to the floor, a wild, tumbling landslide of stitches and seams down her legs, relishing the rush of air that flows up her body in its passing.
The room is cold. Nina keeps the big apartment at refrigerator temperatures, but Rachel is creating her own heat, now. Her skin is a desert, hot and open, and she shuffles dunes away to find the oasis.
Her nipples feel the fabric move, even through her bra, as she slips the soft shirt over her head and lets it flutter to the floor. She takes a moment to indulge, to let the very tips of her fingers drift from her navel upward, savoring the spark of sensation as they skim over her chest. The ends of her hair burn her where they trail innocently over her shoulders.
There is a pinch and scratch, exquisitely sharp, as she unhooks her bra, and an indescribable aching as her breasts at last fall free.
She stands unmoving, for a moment, breathing, feeling her body stretch and settle around the in and out of air through her lungs. She could cry or come, just standing there, breathing.
Her skin is hot, but her palms are scorching as they press against her sides. They stick and stutter as she slides them down the length of her soft, unsteady legs, pulling her underwear down with them. At last, every vestige of clothing is on the floor, and she steps slowly, blindly toward the bed.
The sheets are fine cotton, stolen or bought with stolen money, and Rachel can feel every catch and pull in the 1500 threads. The patterns in the stitching press into her like brands as she lays back. Every dip and rise in the wide, soft pillow cradles her head in its depths. She can feel the tiny pieces of grit, left over from her shoes, grinding between her heels and the bed.
At last, at long last, she lets her legs fall apart and slips a single finger into the soft, dark space that no one but her has ever known.
Soundless, she sighs.