transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

[ambrose doesn't recognize the cigarettes by brand or its particularities, but he knows it by the acrid bite, and it makes him wonder, a little. she's a woman of breeding, he knows. and ill repute tends to follow those who must both manage such expectations, and also -- appetites, as such. cigarettes.

she would have made an excellent witch of greendale. or even the london that he knew.]

I was thinking more of a study group.

[he has a hand on the doorframe. there's an illusion of casual relaxation in his demeanor, his weight leaning on one leg, the grin on his face. he looks far younger than he is, and while that is hardly a novelty in this particular household, he certainly wears it differently than dorian does.] Qu'as-tu pensé? Bise or bisou? [he looks very intellectual in his curiosity, despite that he's still near enough he can feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek like captive sunshine.]

[ it's far from the first time he's inhabited her bedroom, though his intention in occupying that space has always been with alternate pursuits in mind; now, he's literally standing on a threshold that feels equally metaphorical, and she briefly diverges to free her hands of the burning cigarette, discreetly putting it out before leaving it in the crystal ashtray. ]

It's rather late for studying, wouldn't you agree?

[ but there's a smile in her voice even while she's momentarily turned away from him before her mouth subtly quirks with it; she straightens to view him standing lax against the doorframe and steps in to take his hand in her own, establishing that hold of linked fingers before she carefully draws it around to the small of her back, inviting him close. ]

Je pense que... [ it is not anything that requires a great deal of thought from her, in spite of the deliberate pause. ] You should do it again. For the sake of comparison.

[he's aware of it. thresholds, beginnings. changes. and there is so much darkness and ugly violence outside these walls that the risks in here-- of at worst, offending or disappointing a subling, destabilizing a stable relationship in the early stages. few consequences to that, especially when you compare it to the recent war, the dangerous politics of l.i.e.s., and well

the very impressive allure of french classes, the charms of his potential classmate.

he steps inside, backing her in. a slight tilt of his free hand, and the doors gently press themselves shut, unlocked but bolstering the illusion of privacy. he smiles at her, his eyes warm and dark, wondering a little.] Comme vous le souhaitez, [he says, and he leans in, and kisses her again. and this time he knows to expect it, and goes to seek it: the acrid touch of smoke, which signals death to some and comfort to others, intoxication and danger.

his arm closes firm around her waist, his head stoops so her dark curls cloud the rim of his vision like a storm. he knows that kissing with tongue is not nearly as contemporary as greendale's understanding of traditional conservatism would have you think. he expects to meet her tongue, delving to find it.]

[ next to everything that this city has experienced — all-out war, the struggle for control between two opposing parties, the ultimate triumph by the creator and what that could mean for their fates here — this feels entirely simple, a choice she's barely required to dwell over to finally make.

he has been here, throughout all of it, careful fingers on her hips to gently guide her towards her reflection in a mirror, soft words uttered to stir small curls of hair against the nape of her neck.

she may not ever necessarily grasp the origin of his power or be rendered less curious by it, her eyes briefly widening with visible awe when he closes the doors behind himself with barely more than the flick of a wrist.

and she meets him with slightly more hunger this time, not necessarily attempting to devour his mouth but letting her lips yield to him, parting and pliant for his tongue to dip in and tangle with her own — and it's then she brings her arms around him, once his is secure at her waist, twin limbs rising to drape across the set of his shoulders as she voices the subtlest sound of wanting, a soft gasp, into that heated meld of mouths, of bodies. ]

[his aunties probably wouldn't like her. too mortal, too much entangled.

or they'd love her. want her for themselves, maybe. the kind of sweet treat, wild berry that bites back, make sounds of black peat liquor wanting. he wraps his arms around her waist, then sort of semi changes his mind but mostly decides he'd rather grab her ass, one hand on each cheek, and lifts her up off the bedroom floor. her long, full skirts whisper and flow as he goes -- he manages, somehow!! not to trod on them and trip them head over heels onto the plushy bounce of her bed.

so they land there with élan and without accidentally biting off anybody's tongue.

he slows down a little, after that. careful not to stick his elbow into the spreading wings of her hair, but make enough space still to kiss her, thumb down her throat, feel the outline of her round hip underneath the fabric of her clothes. there's much she retains about her old ways, but he does. recall. something she mentioned about. whatever the old timey way of saying 'lingerie' was.]

[ she doesn't completely predict the sudden lift, but perhaps she should have expected it, that once they chose to embrace like this it wouldn't be an occurrence that simply ended on a kiss. her hands move to steady at his shoulders but he gives no indication that he'll drop her, shifting them both until he can gently set her down against the bed — and she goes willingly, dark hair fanning out around her head and a smile on her lips that she's forced to subdue when he drifts over her for that returning kiss.

her chin tilts into the path his thumb takes along the column of her throat, the stark black line that bisects pale skin and disappears beneath the collar of her dress to end at a fixed point between her breasts — and she invites his hands everywhere, while they kiss, her own fingers briefly sweeping up into the dark tumble of his hair for nails to rake across his scalp before she too might set to work on divesting him of some of those clothes.

his hand on her hip stays her for a moment, and he may already be able to discern that beneath the ruching of her skirts her legs are bare, that through the fabric he'll only be met with delicate lace that barely covers her; she'd dispensed with those heavy layers during the unbearable heat of duplicity's summer, and now she indulges, somewhat, her desire to wear finer things in silk stockings and lacy undergarments. certainly nothing that will significantly hinder his progress if he wants to touch her elsewhere. ]

[it is a nice bed. and ambrose is

well let's not be sexist. he's a young person who finds vanessa ives quite attractive. so rare to find mortals that live with one elegant boot in the dark; no wonder that dorian likes her. there's a power in her playful calm, her easy acceptance of what should have been scandal in her day.

but it is a great deal to presume to fuck anybody the first time you kiss them, and sex for witches is a thing of nuance and ancient culture, as much as it's raw, too. he's not some green and greedy boy. he tastes her mouth and smells her hair, and then his brown fingers drift his nails over her skin, finding the subtle floral pattern of that lace under the fabric. he trails his fingers up the outline of her thighs, her hips. his nails aren't long, and his touch is light -- a tracery that makes her skin wonder and imagine as much as answer. they elicit a tingle through her nerves, the shivery ones networked in her inner thighs, her inner-arms.

but the whole 'taking my time,' 'sexy scholarly patience' thing is a bit compromised when she manages to pop his shirt open over his chest.]

J'aimerais discuter de mes eaux-fortes, auissi, [he remarks, grinning against her mouth. he's joking. probably. oh no he's joking.]

[ it may be that her life has almost never been void of scandal, rumors swirling around about anything she may or may not have done — and some of it may have been the devil on her shoulder, prompting her to embrace whatever she's been accused of, but the rest had come with time and acceptance of who she is, much of it occurring here, where she knows she will be met with little judgment if she decides to pursue sex, intimacy with another.

and she would of course never presume they're going to go as far as fucking, but she certainly won't object to the path his hands take over skin beneath the fall of her skirts, the rounds of his nails scratching lightly over the expanse of her thigh and prompting another arch, a reflexive shiver beneath him, the desired effect as she voices a low moan that ends up stifled in that long, continuing kiss. for all the assurances shared between them, this does feel different somehow than anything she's ever experienced here — seeking, searching, gentle.

she returns the smile into the diminished space between their mouths, surging up to bring them together briefly before she lets her head tip back against the mattress, her hands already smoothing over the amount of skin she's bared on him for her own inspection, appreciation. he's lithe and warm beneath her palms, the light drag of her nails, and she rolls her hands along his shoulders to let his shirt catch on his knuckles so she can sweep it away from him altogether. ]

Dans un moment pareil? [ she punctuates the question with a nibble of his lower lip, a low chuckle. ] Plus tard, ma chéri.

[ambrose has seduced a couple of fine ladies in his time, probably. little princelings, princesses, who had lain their white bodies out on claw-footed furniture for him, waiting for him to dispose of them on silk, with langor, drunk on opium as well as stupefying agents that have retained their contemporary popularity. he liked that well enough.

he likes this better, probably.

he skins the panties off of her, just barely in time for his shirt to abruptly take flight!! as if it were magicked away, joining legions of mythical carpets and wizards' cloaks, fancying itself a life of its own. he laughs, pleased, a puff of warm air against her cheek. his naked arm cinches her around her waist, and he rolls them halfway, onto their sides, their legs still interlaced. and then the hand at the small of her back wanders down, darts under the hem of her skirt. slides in between her buttocks, from behind. past the pink of her ass, running light down her taint, and to her pussy.

a finger curled, just a single one, shy, unobtrusive, canted with the tilt of her body, to test if she's damp at all yet, open her a little. see how much more there's to be done -- or if she'd like to be taken without.

and he smiles against her mouth, in the meantime, his head pillowed gently on the smoky trails of her hair.]

[ she is far from a blushing maid, but next to him, her experiences are somewhat limited. that does not mean she hasn't explored along certain lines to find out what she likes, which forms of contact will warm her skin and prompt those softly voiced sounds against the shell of an ear — and this city has done much for her in terms of that exploration, giving her a space without judgment to indulge her whims.

for all her swiftness in the removal of his shirt, she finds herself divested of that impossibly fine layer beneath her skirt with seemingly little effort, and as he rolls them over onto their sides to face one another she slowly hitches one leg up along his, knee bent while she guides one hand to his face for a gentle cupping that seeks to align their mouths again. it's where her soft moan drowns when his touch skims over her exposed flesh, skimming the line between her buttocks with a light, trailing fingertip that prompts a delighted shiver.

and then he eases that digit into her cunt, soft and exploratory, testing; she is aroused and he'll be met with it there, the increasing slickness as she arches slightly with a corresponding roll of her hips. perhaps she should be embarrassed that it doesn't require much preparation for her to be ready to be fucked and yet she's too needy for it to care, catching his lips with a sharp inhale through her nose as she leaves her want there, paints his finger with her need. ]

[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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nsfwish

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