transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

[ambrose hung around with any number of homophobes in his day. he discovered that many of them were not actually secretly queer themselves, though a surprising proportion of them were. he had very little tolerance for most hateful of their rhetoric, of course; boring, ignorant, ugly stuff, that was easy to spin nightmares out of.

but there were a couple of gems that the brusque ol' man's man dummies would drop on him. not entirely true, but with an element of it. things like: men's bodies are ugly, machines built for work. stupid, whatever. but then: women's bodies are like art. you can take one without the other.

her body is art. sumptuous and impossible. the pale fruits of her breasts press up against his chest and it's enough to understand why the straightjacketed, repressed, conservative times -- why this feeling would be equated with madness. she is so soft inside and smooth outside, so precious and wanton. her pallor begs to broken with teeth, and her voice with sharper cries. he should push his finger deeper, probably. find the stretch of slickly shaped flesh inside of her that will make her body open further. but

time waits for no man. and ambrose's dick is kind of like time. ...long.

he grins at her, boyish, pupils blown up huge as if intoxicated. hitches her leg up on his hip, angling himself, and then he pushes his cock in there. the head of it nudges past her clit, in its nest of curls, hits the waiting block of his own fingers. accepts redirection, into the waiting heat of her cunt, the sweet stretch of it. burrowing deep like it's making itself a new home.]

[ There is, remarkably, still somewhat of a playfulness maintained in this throughout, laden in the exchange of their mirrored grins, the soft laughter occasionally punctuated by sharper moans — and she cannot recall an instance when it felt like this, that she was taken with a chuckle dissolving into a gasp on her lips as she signals her readiness to him.

He aligns their hips and even with all the articles of clothing still between them she feels stripped bare by that positioning, the nudge of his cock between outer folds and in until she forms a harsher curve with her body, tipping her chin back to expose her submissive's mark as she tremors against him, nearly undone right then and there by that penetration.

It's only endearments on her lips now, whispered toward the high vaulted ceiling, sentiments voiced in the language they'd initiated between one another and spilling from her freely; she directs the clutch of her hand to the nape of his neck and then uses a sudden surge of her weight to roll them with him still inside until he's splayed out across the bed beneath her and she can seat herself on his cock astride, her skirt falling to shroud where they're joined as she starts to ride him, long and smooth rolls of her hips. ]

[what a joyous creature, for all her darker airs. suddenly, ambrose is bowled over, his lean shoulders bouncing to a flat stop on the mattress.

she's on his dick again and

it's different, being ridden. a lupercalian delight, the wet electric snap of her pale thighs and the clench of her cunt sleeking down his shaft. she does know what to do, her hips rolling to catch his dick at the right angle, something like a shimmy rocking through the cradle of her body. those breasts jump in the fabric of her cups, smooth and symmetrical. girls like vanessa-- excuse me, woman like vanessa, were born out of some mysterious place that is part confectionary and part fairytale. there are reasons why christian sins, faerie magic, and good dessert.

he looks up at her with something akin to fascination. her voice strafes the air. maybe french isn't the prettiest language after all.

but ambrose not an indolent mesmer. another five seconds tick by and he grips her hips, rocks up into her. puts his back into it, not like he means to hurt her, but driving the next thrust into her open-kneed gait. she's got such a pretty voice to break.]

[ The movements of her hips are decisive and firm but there's almost a deep laugh on her lips while she does it, unfiltered color on her cheeks, and she feels giddy and unrestrained all in the same instant as she seizes her pleasure on him, the exquisite girth of his cock buried deep inside her. She gazes down at him with a smile curving up the edges of her mouth before heat unfurls in her very center and it provokes an arch of her spine, her head briefly dropping back between her shoulders while she forms that delicate, straining curve over him, continuing to rock through the sudden rippling squeeze of her cunt, that blessed finish she'll ride right through into another.

Because she doesn't intend on stopping at the singular, not while she has him in her bed, smooth and dark and beautiful, and her hands roam over his body with a wordless murmur of appreciation in her throat before he brings his grasp to her hips and fucks up into her, driving a sudden and sharp gasp from her at the same time, thrusting the very air from her lungs while she's still coming back down from that initial orgasm.

She instinctively bowls forward, hands clutching his shoulders for that necessary leverage as her gaze finds his, eager and hungry. If he elects to take her now like this, hard and fast and edging on brutal, she'll welcome it with open arms and spread thighs, let him plunge into her wet depths until he wrings another climax out of her, make her scream until her voice goes hoarse. ]

[to have a woman's body. there's some magic to that, which witchcraft may at times allow to borrow, not to be super gender essentialist terms but -- that is what happens when you use sorcery to solve every other problem. she comes in sequence and it feels like a song being played on his cock.

one that he desires to hear, in one more refrain, and so -- he digs his nails into the heel of his hand subtly. bites his lip, willing himself not to come -- not for another few minutes, at least. but it's a fucking war inside of him, with an emphasis on the fucking. he is nightmarishly close, standing on the crumbling edge as a hot wind snakes its fingers through his hair and his clothes, lures him with falling.

how easy it would be to fall.

she makes her invitation, and he takes his fingernails out of his hands. they will, he decides, fall together.

whump.

her back meets the covers. a cooler section of fabric, unmarred as yet by the tortion of bodies, unmarked by their sweat. her gathers up her sweet lovely limbs close to him, the muscles in his own long brown back bunching up-- and then he goes. ruts in, a pace that would've been jolting, too fast, if she weren't wet and wanton already. his fingers have already lost their sense, roving over the pale fruit of her breast, that her hip. he says nonsense things:]

For the love of His Dark— fuck-- Majesty--

[at least, when you're a follower of satan, it's less paradoxical to invoke the name of your deity as you come. (but probably still weird.) (perhaps she'll be distracted, by the tender bite of his short-shorn fingernails into her right buttock, his open-mouthed kiss sending blessings into her mouth.)]

[ It is blissful and chaotic all in the same instance, when he rolls them, brings her to splay across the mattress, and her legs are hoisted up atop his waist now, rendering them inextricably joined for those few precious moments that he drives into her, sharp and unapologetic and making her gasp and clutch at him; she's unrepentantly slick, rendered pliant beneath him by her previous climax and yet he's poised to give her another in short order, something that props her to cling to him even harder still.

She has always been a somewhat vocal woman in this instance, never shy about producing those low sounds of need, moans that no doubt fill his hearing as his hand grasps over her blindly, cups over her breast and the round of her hip, and he fucks her hard and fast until she bows beneath him again, unraveling with another sound that leaves her closer to a strained whimper.

And then he joins her in it too, filling her with that satisfying heat, pulses of it she can somehow feel amidst her own, on and on as they come down from it together with those harshly panted breaths; she won't move to separate him from her right away, always secretly savoring that moment of lingered joining until necessity and comfort dictates he pull out, but — for now, at least, she keeps him tethered to her with her thighs at his hips, her mouth finding his for a soft series of grazing kisses in the aftermath. ]

[there's a couple of long seconds where his heart is pounding and his dark blood is coursing and he isn't paying very much attention to anything besides his dick and its surroundings, which are her.

a couple long minutes later, he comes back to vanessa's lips sliding past the apogee of his cheekbone and his jaw, silky and pretty. it is a beautiful thing to come back to, when his eyes ease back open.]

Merde. Vous êtes si belle.

[ah, he has enough brains to remember his second favorite language. a laugh dispels like a puff of warm airy magic against her cheek. he goes limp on her just for a moment, before he decides to prop his weight up a bit, shifting the majority of the bulk of his muscle and bone off of her. transfers it onto his knee instead, just a few degrees off of her glowing skin. but as reluctant as she is to extricate one body from the other for the moment.

he flicks a stray coil of hair off of her brow, but he's only far enough away from her nose to have a look for a split second, before he's in for little kisses once more.]

[ It is, somehow remarkably, everything she needed in that moment, playful evolving to frantic and chasing sensation, both of them visibly glowing in the afterward given their partial undress, and she feels herself flutter around what he still keeps buried inside her, a lingering tremor that prompts another pleased moan from her throat as her head lolls against the bed. ]

Dit l'éternellement beau.

[ For he does have that sort of ageless beauty that is almost too striking to look upon, like their shared dominant, a sort of effortless flawlessness that paints his features even now in the height of satisfaction, sated and limp and warm atop her.

She lifts her hand to cup his jaw and when he urges his mouth to hers again she answers it without hesitation, soft lingering presses that undoubtedly display her affection and esteem for him. ]

And did that prove beneficial to your study, monsieur?

[how mortal is she? ambrose has to wonder. she doesn't flaunt it, whatever it is she has; if it weren't for her relationship to dorian -- who is... choosy, to say the least, and the occasional scent of power drifting from her room, he would think she is so human. in the best ways, that witches can barely stand to think of, in their pernicious jealousy.]

Eh oui.

[what is it? sooner death and brighter joy? he doesn't like to think so. but he does like the compliments. he grins down at her, feeling pretty because she says so, sated. her frame is startlingly small, denuded and pale in the shadow of his bigger, brown shoulders. you wouldn't think so, in the corsets and regal blacks she tends to favor when fully dressed.

he should get his dick out of her, probably. but he's procrastinating. his body doesn't feel too tender, and it feels -- artistic, the symmetry of her spread hair mirrored in her thighs.]

I intend to advance to a higher course of study, though. Don't think me reticent.

[ She is flushed with color, as she lays with him, flushed with life — and some distant, dimmer realm of her mind remains conscious of the fact that after this place, for her, she will have another quieter release, gently consigned to oblivion or any other place she might be meant for.

Perhaps that is why she tends to linger more often than not, savoring this sort of aftermath while possessing the knowledge that she may not get to have it eternally. And there is, of course, the fact that Ambrose's face is one of the more charming sort to look upon, even moreso when he's succumbed to a climax that leaves them both tethered to one another for a brief time.

She hasn't objected to his delay in removing himself from her; if anything, it gives her an opportunity to lift a hand, fingers slowly edging through his hair along the side of his skull with a soft, thoughtful hum. ]

I would think nothing of the sort. You've been very... demonstrative.

[ambrose tucks his head down, preening under the touch of her hand on his head. his nose makes its way into the soft skin inside her wrist, and he shapes his lips over the faintest tracery of green veins within it. her skin smells like -- something he could sell for millions, if he could bottle it in essence.

that's not creepy, you're creepy.]

There are other secret languages which I wonder that you speak, and what dialect, what poetry you favor, [he says.] One day, I'll summon up my little courage and come knocking on your door. [his eyes crinkle warmly. he spends a beat after the end of that sentence breathing her in, feeling the last softening of his dick inside of her.

and then he straightens his arm. a bit of showing off, maybe. he can perform a very good pushup. but gently, as he disengages the slick mess where their bodies are joined.]

inbox for duplicity;

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