Work Text:
This corner of her room was Ayaka’s special place. Normally, it would be open on one side, but with her futon out, on her right, and the wall, on her left, she could slide back until she was against the bookshelf that they’d decided not to place flush with the wall, for some reason. It blocked her from being seen by anyone peeking in, and she could always find something—extra clothes, spare shikibuton—to put under her kakebuton to resemble a sleeping girl in case anyone did decide to take a look.
Today, she’d used her clothes. Using her bedclothes as a base and her breastplate, headdress, and armor plates to prop up the kakebuton to give the illusion of mass, she’d put together a convincing prop of a woman’s form, tucked into bed. Then, she’d tiptoed her way over to the corner, and gasped quietly at the cold touch of the wood on her bare back as she sat down and leaned against it, sliding down into almost a slump.
Even during the day, the thick bookshelf obscured her well enough to give her a measure of security and privacy here, if temporary. She couldn’t risk such a good spot by using it for too long, lest people get suspicious. So most of the time, she’d sneak here when she needed a brief respite during the day, and on certain nights, she would sit in this corner, with a thick coat on colder nights, and by the light of the moon diffusing in get up to her antics: stitching a temari together, struggling to read a book that had engrossed her, obsessively tracing characters on the tatami mat so that she could master calligraphy that little bit sooner, be able to help her brother that little bit more.
Tonight, as on a few rare nights, the moon shone directly through the window, and as luck would have it, its path would see moonlight strike this corner directly for a time. Bathed under its pale light, Ayaka saw her bare legs transformed into an ethereal sight of light and shadow that rippled when she moved them. She saw the small shadows cast by her nipples, highlighted against her skin that was turned nearly luminescent in the light, rising and falling gently with each breath. Underneath the moonlight, Ayaka felt like she was in another world.
No one knew she came here, save for her brother. Once, as a child, she had brought Ayato here, shown him her secret spot, and they had snuck away here to read or to chat a few times. But then, he became Yashiro Commissioner, and had no more time for silly things like a secret corner. If he hadn’t forgotten all about it by now, he would surely assume that the Shirasagi Himegimi had no time either. Ayaka was content with this arrangement: precisely because she was the Shirasagi Himegimi did she value this private spot so much, a little space that was truly hers and hers alone.
Hers and hers alone, how much she cherished the freedom that granted her. The ability to run her hand anywhere along her skin, to caress and fondle herself with utmost care and delicateness. To be able to keep herself all to herself, Kamisato Ayaka, the self-evident delight, her most precious treasure, far away from prying eyes or reaching hands or smiles concealing knives that would carve her up like a roast fowl. No, here the only thing that touched her were her own fingers, whose callouses softly brushed her skin.
But because she was Kamisato Ayaka, she also chafed under that arrangement. Kamisato Ayaka longed to hide in this space with someone else. Kamisato Ayaka didn’t want her corner just to be alone in. Kamisato Ayaka yearned to confide. Kamisato Ayaka yearned to invite. Kamisato Ayaka yearned to share with one who would sanctify and defile her special place in equal measure.
Prince or pauper, Ayaka didn’t know who she pictured when she closed her eyes and let her fingers finally reach down to her clit.
She used to touch herself and imagine someone else doing it. She used to imagine it was someone else’s fingers pushing her legs open, leaving rough red marks across her thighs, travelling in circles around the tip of her clit. She would close the window and draw the curtains to leave herself in complete silence, so she could keep her eyes open and see someone above her, pleasuring her, taking in what she offered.
She learned to do it in silence. She was never particularly loud to begin with, be that due to her upbringing around demanding but loving parents, her constant vigilance at any sound outside that might signal an impending intruder, her channeling her vocalizations out in long, luxurious breaths instead, or more likely than not a mixture of all three. Then she would not be put off by being unable to imagine someone’s voice. They were mute too, just like her, but they didn’t need to talk to know where she liked to be touched best.
She’d grown past that. She no longer liked imagining herself being fingered. She was content with phantom kisses, phantom pulls of her hair, or even a phantom voyeur. Where she used to even open her mouth and make gagging sounds in response to an imaginary penis slipping into her throat and squeezing more wetness out of her, she would now simply picture someone, sitting opposite her against the wall, pleasuring themselves too with the sight of her pleasuring herself. With the spectacle of her spread legs and spread folds, her hot, pink flesh revealed underneath her fingers, the toss of her hair back behind her shoulder accompanied by an exhale of both relief and want. With desire, with love, directed squarely at her, their precious one. If she was particularly needy, she would close her eyes and imagine them learning forward to take her mouth in theirs, kissing her softly, guiding her to her climax.
Today, though, she just wanted an observer. Someone to watch, an audience for her as she spread her legs to close them again, parted her feet and pulled her knees up to show between her thighs, squeezed and lifted each breast in turn. She wanted someone to hear her, to feel the heat that felt like it was radiating from her cheeks.
Nothing really came to mind, though, no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut or how firmly she pressed her clit down as she rubbed it. Their form was ephemeral, never settling into a satisfactory presence. Ayaka didn’t need a clear image, no, only the feeling that they were there, but even that eluded her. She let out a frustrated sound and opened her eyes.
She let her hand rest for a bit. She slid her middle fingers down between her folds, and gently pulled them apart, feeling the cool night air against the hotness of her vulva, previously insulated, now exposed. She let her index fingers brush against her clit as they settled on either side of it. Her gaze followed the line of her arms down to between her legs, and she marveled in the eroticism of the sight, of the Shira—no, of Kamisato Ayaka spreading herself out, voluntarily, the sides of her hands keeping her legs from closing, her slender fingers framing her vulva like an invitation.
If anyone was watching, they must be struck by her beauty, she thought. But the only eyes that crept along her body were her own.
The only eyes that crept along her body were her own.
In the moonlight, in her familiar space, Ayaka let her eyes drift from her feet, to the small shadow cast by the bone sticking out at her ankle, up the slow, almost shimmering curve of her calf, down the expanse of her thighs. She didn’t need a mirror to know what was between them was beautiful and hot. But she kept going, taking in the curve of her hips at the ends of her legs, each roll of her stomach—each was a piece of fleshy craftsmanship—and finally her breasts, which took her breath away when she finally allowed her gaze to finally fix itself on them.
She stared.
Does a camellia need to be seen, for it to be beautiful?
No, the question was, could a camellia be beautiful to itself?
She let out a steady breath as her hands moved to pleasure herself once more. Thumb, middle, ring, little fingers splayed across the insides of her thighs, as the other hand ran down the length of a pulled-back leg. Her eyes traced its movement down what she was seeing anew. The soft touch was electrifying, sending a ripple of goosebumps up her body as her index finger finally came down to rub against her clit.
Ayaka sucked in her breath. It felt otherworldly. She followed her body’s instincts to close her legs, her hand cradling the outside of her calf as her finger began to trace more frantic circles over her clit. She watched as her hand wound its way up her thigh, up her stomach, settling over her breasts that she had rediscovered the beauty of. A quiet moan escaped her mouth as her hand squeezed down, and she looked, enraptured, at the troughs her fingers left in her breast.
She was wet, but it helped her finger glide smoothly over her clit. Her finger dipped down to coat itself some more, and when it returned to her clit the pleasure felt better, but she wanted more. She let her middle finger dip down too and cover itself with her fluids, and when both fingers began brushing over her clit in the rhythmic pattern she learned she liked so much, she let out a gasp as her other hand tightened its grip on her breast in response.
The bookcase pressed against her as she tensed, her back arching, toes trying to grip the tatami mat. Her fingers went faster and she and felt like she was dissolving into beams of moonlight, radiating out from her body. She closed her eyes and allowed it to carry her away, drifting on the currents of warmth and light that she submerged herself into, her hand traveling to grab and hold and squeeze other parts of her body, her thighs, her stomach, her buttcheeks, her other breast. She pressed her legs together and let them spread, she kicked her feet out and brought them in tightly, she rolled her head forward to curl herself closer to the pleasure and pushed it against the bookcase with her whole body tensed. She let out sighs, moans, pants, gasps, all manner of sounds, giving up her control to the irresistible bliss coming from under her fingertips.
Then she opened her eyes again, and cast her gaze on her body, her hand rubbing away at her clit, her legs splayed out on the mat, her nipples tense and erect, waiting to be touched. She obliged them, bringing her hand up to gently pinch and squeeze and roll them. And the sight of her own skin and the sounds of her own breaths and moans and the feeling of being touched, of both her soft, wet flesh under her fingers and the hard, worn callouses on her clit and nipples, this was all she needed. All of it was right here.
She could be her own delight, her own precious treasure.
She gave a soft cry as the warm moonlight swept over her, pulsing out from her hips to fill each corner of her body. Her fingers continued to worry at herself, at her nipple, at her clit, at the drenched flesh between her folds, but her mind was swimming in a tranquil sea of comfort. Her back was arched, pressing her shoulders against the bookshelf, her tailbone digging into the tatami mat, but she didn’t feel the pain. Her mouth was agape, gasping and panting in her ecstasy, her eyes drowning in the light streaming in the window, mirroring its color. Dimly, she felt her legs move, her heels drag across the mats, the hard floor on the tender inside of her thighs, all that pushed her further over the edge, but what she felt most was the warm wetness that seemed to wrap her in its caress, slowly draining, slowly draining away, until her body finally relaxed and her gaze lowered from the window back to herself glowing in the dimly-lit room. She caught her breath and felt the hotness in her cheeks go down as her eyes surveyed what she had just done.
She looked lovely under the moonlight, Ayaka thought to herself. Her slick glistened on her fingers like transient constellations.