More than she knows. Or perhaps just as she knows, considering the parallels between them; to say he cannot understand what she murmurs against him in that prolonged moment of blissful undoing is a lie— he is wholly, thoroughly aware, down to the marrow of his bones, and made softer by it. But it is a distant sound compared to her. Her touch and her hold and her warmth, above all else.
Someone else might concern themselves with her satisfaction. Whether or not it had been met, whether or not she feels anything close to enjoyment in practice, or how the exchange leaves her.
Gabranth is no such creature.
Instead he collapses, sated, against the settee and her hold both, his eyes lidded beneath dark lashes, his chest quick in the rise and fall of steadying breaths.
And if Jone feels a little less alone, a little more safe in that moment, well. It's stupid. But it's no one's business but hers.
Jone kisses Gabranth's chin before settling her head on his shoulder. She moves a bit, turning to the side again, so she's spread across him, head on one shoulder, legs across his lap. One arm snakes between him and the settee, holding him close, while she gets to the business of finishing herself off.
It takes longer than last time, and she's left shivering against him, nosing at his jaw, the scent of him. She doesn't say anything, because this isn't for him. It's only just not embarrassing, and she wonders if her having to do this will hurt his pride? But it doesn't really matter, does it. She has to, so she is.
Not for a moment does he feel shamed by it. That is the point of this, is it not? He holds no concept of shared, flawless union— imagines no picturesque challenge of united undoing: he ruts until he cannot and she does the same and so long as both are contented with it, there is no need to let acidity creep in like a poison. It does not belong.
Instead he leaves his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, listening to the sound of her easement— the hitch and catch of her ecstasy, pleasure-numbed fingertips still cinched tight across her hips, unwilling to free her even after she finishes. Unwilling and unwanting, he has never cared to let go.
“Stay, if you wish.” He murmurs after far too long left idle, his mouth scuffed uselessly across her jaw. Drowned in silence and comfort alike.
She's left boneless in his embrace, still quivering slightly as the aftershock runs through her. This was good. Better than she deserved. She can't decide if she owes him, or the reverse-- and maybe she ought to let the scores lie fallen, if he'll let her stay.
"I'd like that." She's already nuzzling into the crook of his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin anew. "A fine host, you are. Comfortable bed and a reason to sleep in. I'd carry you to bed, if I felt my legs were working."
Too dry to be a joke, arid by both tone and passive expression— none would mistake it as such, yet beneath the surface there’s an undeniable sort of amusement that makes itself known. Uncharacteristic of him, yes, but him, at heart. More than metal trappings and a stern hand could ever be. “But it is appreciated all the same.”
Of course, for him to offer the same for Jone in turn, he would need clarity and control that currently lies absent in listless muscle. Otherwise strong. Otherwise unshakable. What a strange thing it is, to be made pleasantly useless.
“There is clothing enough to spare, should you wish it.”
Though...perhaps she does not. And that thought has him shifting just slightly in focus, glancing away, as if she is not already unclothed before him.
Jone only realizes it's a (very dry, desert dry) joke at the last moment. A little huff of laughter escapes her, less at the content of the jest and more at Gabranth making it at all. She kisses his shoulder one last time-- now entirely red from bites and sucking kisses, all the way to his neck-- and begins slowly to move away from him.
"Oh, are you the sort that likes having his shirts worn by someone else?" She's known the sort, and the thought is very endearing. Endearing enough that she misses Gabranth's wandering gaze.
“I cannot say.” He says, squinting up at her from his perch (just as thoroughly marked as she, now) in no rush to rise or remove himself, aside from a minute effort made to tuck himself away and lace his trousers halfway once more.
He is not making a joke, this time.
“I would need to bear witness to it to know for certain.” Lax, when he stands at last to follow her, gesturing towards a dresser comprised of deep, dark wood, polished to a near mirror shine. There, is what he seems to mean, though he doesn't bother to speak it aloud.
"Are you-?" She cocks her head to the side. He's a hard man to read, at times. If he had any patience for gambling, he'd be a grand card player. "You want me to try...?"
It's absolutely fucking absurd, the flutter she gets in her chest at the thought of him taking an interest. It gives her enough energy to stand, to walk and rifle through his clothes drawer. She doesn't have the patience for the dark leather she finds, and searches for something made of cloth. It's dark cloth, invariably, but she's told dark colors make her hair stand out. Maybe he'll like that?
Well, he gave her permission to try. She pulls on a shirt, clearly meant to be tucked in tighter under other layers. Jone, having no patience for that, lets the thing crumple loosely about her. She can't keep from smiling when she looks him over, after pulling the tangle of her hair from the neck.
He is preoccupied as she works; runs water in the attached washroom and uses a damp cloth to diligently work away spit and sweat, tending to the last of his own undressing as he goes. Fastidious, military— or perhaps simply practiced, it hardly matters. In the end, he re-emerges in the dark to find her fitted and content in something too slack across her own muscular form.
He sucks in a faint breath through his nose, a slight more reactive than objective...or thoughtful.
“It would seem you are correct.” Concluded as he moves to her side, dour in form yet not in tone, to hunt for clothing of his own.
To be impulsive in their earlier ventures is fine, but he’ll not impose on her during sleep.
He's hard to read, yes, but she's starting to get it. Listen to the way he breathes. That's where everything is, isn't it? The way he sucks in breath when he sees her-- that's something.
She smiles faintly at the thought, her hands combing fingers through her hair. She'll need a proper comb later, but for now, this will keep it from getting utterly unruly in her sleep.
And she does intend to sleep here, at least a little. He said she could, sort of. He implied she could. Fuck what he said, actually, she's going to do it anyway. Maybe they can go a second round. That would be a perfect ending to the day, she thinks, though her mood may be unusually high thanks to getting a proper tumble in.
She leans forward to kiss the cool shell of his ear, more playful than anything else. "Don't pick anything I can't run my hands under," she whispers, before trotting off to find his bed. He might listen. He probably won't, but it'd be nice if he did.
It catches him wholly unawares, the kiss and her demand alike; he opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and then opens it once more— before simply exhaling once, and pressing the drawers shut without ceremony, rather than rifling through them for something else to wear.
Whatever her mood might settle on, should she decide to take up touch in the dead of night, he would only dirty yet another set of clothes. Another process to be sorted and undone.
His bed is almost laughably expansive when she finds it, crisp and tidy. Perhaps a strange thing to consider him sleeping alone at it’s very edge, but if this is so, he hardly seems to notice as he lifts the covers and fits himself to the barest side, far enough from the middle to be painfully practical.
Should the Emperor or his sons have need of him, this makes it ever easier to rise quickly and efficiently.
Jone finds him in the dark as soon as she can. Hands snake around his middle, feeling his body close to hers. She's pleased he didn't pick out a shirt. He doesn't need one. If he can get away with it, he shouldn't ever wear one.
She slots himself close to his back, legs tangling with his. Another gentle kiss to his ear, and a promise.
"I won't stay long. I just-..." She had decided to explain herself, and now it feels very hollow. Would she be so hesitant, if he spoke more? She's suddenly certain she wouldn't be, and that spurs her on. She won't be boxed in by his habits. "I need this."
She hides her face in the nape of his neck, breathing him in.
Who is he to deny such need? How can he claim to be any different? Theirs is an addiction, a weakness— that desire for closeness when all it serves is their own foolish undoing.
But it is a pleasant vice, and he is certain in his ability to keep tight to his own duties. To snap his teeth at her own, should she falter.
He reaches behind himself to fit a rough palm along the edge of her hip— or her thigh— he isn’t quite sure of it, and finds he does not care to know regardless. It is her. That is all that matters.
“Do not drink so deeply as to fall into ruin, and I shall not care.”
It is meant as a comfort, his assurance. But she will take it as she cares to, he knows.
His answer pushes a weight down on her, sticking in her throat, her breaths momentarily stopped. What if she'd like him to care? Even a little. She's not asking for some grand romance, just... Jone lets out her sigh.
It makes the bed feel uncomfortable, her presence unwelcome. She can't stand to stay as long as she'd liked. After a minute, two, Jone rises, moving past Gabranth's form to leave the bed entirely. She doesn't move the blankets back onto him. He can do that himself.
She shrugs out of his shirt, folding it carefully and leaving it on a nearby table, perhaps uncharacteristically quiet in her actions. Would Gabranth notice? Would he care? She's being stupid, she knows, but she can't help it.
She wanders through his rooms for the shower, taking what time she's saving to clean herself before leaving. It's the dead of night. She has time.
Yet frequently his judgments are too harsh. Too merciless. He fears what softness might do to her, particularly now, when she works so hard to establish herself as a creature of loyalty, rather than humanity. Fallibility. It was believed she nearly laid down her life for the empire, what would be said of her if they instead took to thinking it was for Gabranth’s sake alone?
But even so, even knowing this, he finds himself restless in her absence.
In such a state, is it his weakness, or hers?
He finds her as she finishes the last of her washing, stare flickering in its draw, rather than lingering; he’ll not be so coarse-cut, even in confidence.
“You are unhappy.” He concludes, fitting himself to a doorway that shuts discreetly behind him.
Jone is toweling herself off, hair wrapped in whatever towels Gabranth chooses to use in his suite. She is again wearing his things. What a pattern to continue.
She smiles when she sees him, though it's a bitter thing, regret found easily in her eyes. Yes, she is unhappy. He's either a better judge of character than she thought, or he cares more. Either are meaningless, though, when he has made his stance clear.
She pulls the towel from her head, and slowly begins to pull a brush through it. "Not enough to fall into ruin."
“Do not bite at me so.” Growled as only he can manage, in a tone that speaks of both irritation and affection in equal measure— though to a stranger it might read only as the former. “You know why indulgence is imperilment itself. You cannot ask me to be so heartless as to endanger you for the sake of my own satisfaction, nor blame me for the circumstances that encircle us both.”
His eyes meet hers as she works, frown etched deep across his features. He does not withdraw, nor does he move.
Jone narrows her eyes. For him to take so much out of such a small statement-- she is offended and concern in equal measure. Invariably, concern wins out. She is a terrible creature for the rigors ahead, perhaps, but she does care for him.
"You think everything I say is mockery," she murmurs darkly. "Have you ever considered we have the same aims, or do you find me completely faithless? I may not take joy in every aspect of my duty, but neither do you. I will fulfill it, I-"
Her face screws up in a sneer. This is pointless. "At least let me put on some bloody pants if we're to argue." She means to walk past him.
His hand finds her arm as she moves past, unwilling to grant that request. Ever the immovable object, and it makes him wonder at times if she truly desires his companionship. The sting of something too sharp to be held.
"I've no intention of arguing." Low spoken, sincere in effort. Perhaps she endeavors to see it as such, yet knowing the both of them—
"You interpret my words no differently in turn. Always as burrs beneath your skin, rather than as balm. How am I to soothe such injury with hands so ill-suited to mending?"
"I-" She does not like being caught. Don't be near people when your blood is up. When anyone's blood is up. She tries to move away from him without making the situation worse. A difficult bargain.
"I would never expect that from you," she says, and her words are harsh. Sincere, but harsh. "I don't want anything you can't give."
It means she wants less and less all the time, but that's her chosen fate. She'll weather it.
“What I give in private, and what I give elsewhere is— “ he cuts himself off only for his own inability to chase where impulsive thought leads him. Words are always slower. Eloquence more difficult. Accuracy...distant.
“It is a separate matter, Jone.”
His hold on her stays tensed, harsh enough to bruise. It seems he can only focus on one process at a time. “I meant only to tease you.”
“I do not know how those words found you, but If you are so wounded, then I can only assume I’ve done poorly.”
So Jone has to resist every urge to hit him, to tear at him? She can feel herself seething under the strain; what little kindness she has runs thin. She is about to hiss some curse, claw into him, and-
And he is apologizing.
Still, she continues to push, attempting to twist away from him. "I know that. I know- let go of me, or there will be a fight, Gabranth, and you may win, but you will regret it."
They can solve this when he is not gripping her like- like some others she has known.
It is not within his nature to relent. Not without necessity bearing down upon him like a tempered blade, by way of authority or status or— in this unique instance— simple, potent respect. Something she has earned by now, even if it does not always show.
Thus his inhale is slow, like the click of a turning lock under key. His fingers unwind, one after the other, willed into docile obedience.
And perhaps it is absurd. No, truly it is, he comes to realize, standing there before her so entirely undressed, attempting to broach some deeper aspect of her pain or frustration.
“Forgive me.” he says, dourly, before extricating himself and moving to return to his own room. Unable to stomach the aftermath of his folly.
It's good that he leaves. It gives Jone time to think. It allows her time to breathe.
And if he does not see her sitting on the floor, slouched over herself, reliving moments where men had held her far more roughly-- that is good. She can live with that privacy. There are parts of themselves neither wants to share. She can still be true and have her worst shames hidden. Isn't that the point?
She emerges some long minutes later, mostly dry. Her clothes, she retrieves from the floor, dressing quickly and silently. When she finds Gabranth in his room, she slouches in the doorway, her body arranged with the confidence she may have lacked before.
"I adore you, Gabranth," she says, refusing to look away, "and more than that, I respect you. I'll give you everything I have, if I know you want it, so long as you never hold me down when I'm past wanting it. Not because I couldn't hurt you, but because I really, really could."
He grants whatever time she requires. Lacking any overt reason as to why, he assumes respect. Owed dignity, owed understanding. Favors he does not usually offer, and ones he's left with in hand once she returns— dressed in her own clothing, as he is now, too.
His head is not turned to meet hers, he only glances up from beneath the shadow of his brow. He listens as he must, and as diligently as can be managed, but in the end, his conclusion is only the same:
"I do not understand you. It has been an age since last I took anything for myself, without it being a formality. A requested gift, such as all you see before you." A truth she likely already grasps. And so, with effort, he adds, his voice snared by low friction.
"But you must know that I am endeavoring to speak— or perhaps to think, at times, as you do. To avoid point of pain."
This, in its own way, is a promise that he'll make no such trespass again.
Edited (I might be melting today I'm sorry) 2021-06-22 00:22 (UTC)
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Someone else might concern themselves with her satisfaction. Whether or not it had been met, whether or not she feels anything close to enjoyment in practice, or how the exchange leaves her.
Gabranth is no such creature.
Instead he collapses, sated, against the settee and her hold both, his eyes lidded beneath dark lashes, his chest quick in the rise and fall of steadying breaths.
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Jone kisses Gabranth's chin before settling her head on his shoulder. She moves a bit, turning to the side again, so she's spread across him, head on one shoulder, legs across his lap. One arm snakes between him and the settee, holding him close, while she gets to the business of finishing herself off.
It takes longer than last time, and she's left shivering against him, nosing at his jaw, the scent of him. She doesn't say anything, because this isn't for him. It's only just not embarrassing, and she wonders if her having to do this will hurt his pride? But it doesn't really matter, does it. She has to, so she is.
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Instead he leaves his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, listening to the sound of her easement— the hitch and catch of her ecstasy, pleasure-numbed fingertips still cinched tight across her hips, unwilling to free her even after she finishes. Unwilling and unwanting, he has never cared to let go.
“Stay, if you wish.” He murmurs after far too long left idle, his mouth scuffed uselessly across her jaw. Drowned in silence and comfort alike.
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"I'd like that." She's already nuzzling into the crook of his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin anew. "A fine host, you are. Comfortable bed and a reason to sleep in. I'd carry you to bed, if I felt my legs were working."
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Too dry to be a joke, arid by both tone and passive expression— none would mistake it as such, yet beneath the surface there’s an undeniable sort of amusement that makes itself known. Uncharacteristic of him, yes, but him, at heart. More than metal trappings and a stern hand could ever be. “But it is appreciated all the same.”
Of course, for him to offer the same for Jone in turn, he would need clarity and control that currently lies absent in listless muscle. Otherwise strong. Otherwise unshakable. What a strange thing it is, to be made pleasantly useless.
“There is clothing enough to spare, should you wish it.”
Though...perhaps she does not. And that thought has him shifting just slightly in focus, glancing away, as if she is not already unclothed before him.
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"Oh, are you the sort that likes having his shirts worn by someone else?" She's known the sort, and the thought is very endearing. Endearing enough that she misses Gabranth's wandering gaze.
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He is not making a joke, this time.
“I would need to bear witness to it to know for certain.” Lax, when he stands at last to follow her, gesturing towards a dresser comprised of deep, dark wood, polished to a near mirror shine. There, is what he seems to mean, though he doesn't bother to speak it aloud.
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It's absolutely fucking absurd, the flutter she gets in her chest at the thought of him taking an interest. It gives her enough energy to stand, to walk and rifle through his clothes drawer. She doesn't have the patience for the dark leather she finds, and searches for something made of cloth. It's dark cloth, invariably, but she's told dark colors make her hair stand out. Maybe he'll like that?
Well, he gave her permission to try. She pulls on a shirt, clearly meant to be tucked in tighter under other layers. Jone, having no patience for that, lets the thing crumple loosely about her. She can't keep from smiling when she looks him over, after pulling the tangle of her hair from the neck.
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He sucks in a faint breath through his nose, a slight more reactive than objective...or thoughtful.
“It would seem you are correct.” Concluded as he moves to her side, dour in form yet not in tone, to hunt for clothing of his own.
To be impulsive in their earlier ventures is fine, but he’ll not impose on her during sleep.
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She smiles faintly at the thought, her hands combing fingers through her hair. She'll need a proper comb later, but for now, this will keep it from getting utterly unruly in her sleep.
And she does intend to sleep here, at least a little. He said she could, sort of. He implied she could. Fuck what he said, actually, she's going to do it anyway. Maybe they can go a second round. That would be a perfect ending to the day, she thinks, though her mood may be unusually high thanks to getting a proper tumble in.
She leans forward to kiss the cool shell of his ear, more playful than anything else. "Don't pick anything I can't run my hands under," she whispers, before trotting off to find his bed. He might listen. He probably won't, but it'd be nice if he did.
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Whatever her mood might settle on, should she decide to take up touch in the dead of night, he would only dirty yet another set of clothes. Another process to be sorted and undone.
His bed is almost laughably expansive when she finds it, crisp and tidy. Perhaps a strange thing to consider him sleeping alone at it’s very edge, but if this is so, he hardly seems to notice as he lifts the covers and fits himself to the barest side, far enough from the middle to be painfully practical.
Should the Emperor or his sons have need of him, this makes it ever easier to rise quickly and efficiently.
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She slots himself close to his back, legs tangling with his. Another gentle kiss to his ear, and a promise.
"I won't stay long. I just-..." She had decided to explain herself, and now it feels very hollow. Would she be so hesitant, if he spoke more? She's suddenly certain she wouldn't be, and that spurs her on. She won't be boxed in by his habits. "I need this."
She hides her face in the nape of his neck, breathing him in.
types tags from the wilderness
But it is a pleasant vice, and he is certain in his ability to keep tight to his own duties. To snap his teeth at her own, should she falter.
He reaches behind himself to fit a rough palm along the edge of her hip— or her thigh— he isn’t quite sure of it, and finds he does not care to know regardless. It is her. That is all that matters.
“Do not drink so deeply as to fall into ruin, and I shall not care.”
It is meant as a comfort, his assurance. But she will take it as she cares to, he knows.
wilderness tags back.
It makes the bed feel uncomfortable, her presence unwelcome. She can't stand to stay as long as she'd liked. After a minute, two, Jone rises, moving past Gabranth's form to leave the bed entirely. She doesn't move the blankets back onto him. He can do that himself.
She shrugs out of his shirt, folding it carefully and leaving it on a nearby table, perhaps uncharacteristically quiet in her actions. Would Gabranth notice? Would he care? She's being stupid, she knows, but she can't help it.
She wanders through his rooms for the shower, taking what time she's saving to clean herself before leaving. It's the dead of night. She has time.
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Yet frequently his judgments are too harsh. Too merciless. He fears what softness might do to her, particularly now, when she works so hard to establish herself as a creature of loyalty, rather than humanity. Fallibility. It was believed she nearly laid down her life for the empire, what would be said of her if they instead took to thinking it was for Gabranth’s sake alone?
But even so, even knowing this, he finds himself restless in her absence.
In such a state, is it his weakness, or hers?
He finds her as she finishes the last of her washing, stare flickering in its draw, rather than lingering; he’ll not be so coarse-cut, even in confidence.
“You are unhappy.” He concludes, fitting himself to a doorway that shuts discreetly behind him.
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She smiles when she sees him, though it's a bitter thing, regret found easily in her eyes. Yes, she is unhappy. He's either a better judge of character than she thought, or he cares more. Either are meaningless, though, when he has made his stance clear.
She pulls the towel from her head, and slowly begins to pull a brush through it. "Not enough to fall into ruin."
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His eyes meet hers as she works, frown etched deep across his features. He does not withdraw, nor does he move.
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"You think everything I say is mockery," she murmurs darkly. "Have you ever considered we have the same aims, or do you find me completely faithless? I may not take joy in every aspect of my duty, but neither do you. I will fulfill it, I-"
Her face screws up in a sneer. This is pointless. "At least let me put on some bloody pants if we're to argue." She means to walk past him.
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"I've no intention of arguing." Low spoken, sincere in effort. Perhaps she endeavors to see it as such, yet knowing the both of them—
"You interpret my words no differently in turn. Always as burrs beneath your skin, rather than as balm. How am I to soothe such injury with hands so ill-suited to mending?"
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"I would never expect that from you," she says, and her words are harsh. Sincere, but harsh. "I don't want anything you can't give."
It means she wants less and less all the time, but that's her chosen fate. She'll weather it.
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“It is a separate matter, Jone.”
His hold on her stays tensed, harsh enough to bruise. It seems he can only focus on one process at a time. “I meant only to tease you.”
“I do not know how those words found you, but If you are so wounded, then I can only assume I’ve done poorly.”
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And he is apologizing.
Still, she continues to push, attempting to twist away from him. "I know that. I know- let go of me, or there will be a fight, Gabranth, and you may win, but you will regret it."
They can solve this when he is not gripping her like- like some others she has known.
finds typo in my prior tag, promptly expires
Thus his inhale is slow, like the click of a turning lock under key. His fingers unwind, one after the other, willed into docile obedience.
And perhaps it is absurd. No, truly it is, he comes to realize, standing there before her so entirely undressed, attempting to broach some deeper aspect of her pain or frustration.
“Forgive me.” he says, dourly, before extricating himself and moving to return to his own room. Unable to stomach the aftermath of his folly.
resurrection scroll tyvm.
And if he does not see her sitting on the floor, slouched over herself, reliving moments where men had held her far more roughly-- that is good. She can live with that privacy. There are parts of themselves neither wants to share. She can still be true and have her worst shames hidden. Isn't that the point?
She emerges some long minutes later, mostly dry. Her clothes, she retrieves from the floor, dressing quickly and silently. When she finds Gabranth in his room, she slouches in the doorway, her body arranged with the confidence she may have lacked before.
"I adore you, Gabranth," she says, refusing to look away, "and more than that, I respect you. I'll give you everything I have, if I know you want it, so long as you never hold me down when I'm past wanting it. Not because I couldn't hurt you, but because I really, really could."
no subject
His head is not turned to meet hers, he only glances up from beneath the shadow of his brow. He listens as he must, and as diligently as can be managed, but in the end, his conclusion is only the same:
"I do not understand you. It has been an age since last I took anything for myself, without it being a formality. A requested gift, such as all you see before you." A truth she likely already grasps. And so, with effort, he adds, his voice snared by low friction.
"But you must know that I am endeavoring to speak— or perhaps to think, at times, as you do. To avoid point of pain."
This, in its own way, is a promise that he'll make no such trespass again.
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