albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t assuage her, as she knows now he is no less wanting— or perhaps simply has been made wanton— in this moment.

Yet the moment her skin is bared he fits his hands to her, scars and smoothness, his touch holds no preference: it is all a part of her, and so it draws his attentions equally with an effortless magnetism— the rough pads of his fingers crawling across her chest, then mouth, then tongue and teeth. Less exploratory than expectant.

Whatever else she desires is hers to manage. The blockade against further ventures lifted, now that he has what he sought after.

He touches her-- kisses her-- and that's far better than she could expect. She lets out a sound, not quite a moan, but the promise of one if he continues. He wants her, and he wants her the way she wants to be wanted-- demandingly, hungrily, ceaseless. He's simply too composed to show it, and she supposes it's only just. She was the last to undress, last time.

Fair's fair, then. She wants reactions, and when he shows interest, that's something to be sought. Shucking off the last of her loose shirt and the silly metal bangles that went with it, she rises her hips a little, so she can begin untying her breeches. It leaves Gabranth's face at the height of her chest, something she thinks could either be appeasing or annoying depending on his temperament. She's never been much good at guessing that, but if she had to bet, it'd be on annoyed.

Annoyed, yes. To a certain extent, like a faint tension sharpening the catch of his teeth, the clawing pull of his blunted fingertips as he trails them parallel along the musculature framing her spine; it feels more frustratingly evasive than helpful, even if overall it works to his benefit (and so be it, he’ll not fight her over such small delays in his own roaming gratification).

Even so, when his attention rises, away from the heart of her chest— her breasts, her scars and constellation-drawn spots— it’s only to sink one deep, definitive bite against the slope of her shoulder. Not harsh enough to draw blood, but the mouthing snap of a hound that’s gone impatient in detainment.

It gets a little gasp out of her, surprised pleasure. She shouldn't read too much into it, but some stupid, silly part of her is glad he'd have her marked. She still wonders how his neck looks, if it still bears the bruises from her mouth, under that high collar.

She shucks off her breeches with greater quickness, and while the maneuver is inevitably a bit awkward, it ends with her undressed, as promised. She feels a bit put on display, awkward in that moment. He may be relatively more out of practice, but she lacks his beauty. What a pair they make.

She takes one of his hands, and guides it to her hip. The bruises he left on her, at least, are still there. Her hand goes to touch his lips, running over them carefully.

"I liked that," she says. She means the bite, but why clarify? She's not going to do all the work with talking, if he only speaks when he doesn't get his way.

She approves of his coarser nature, the jagged corners of his being; for a man long-lived in the shadow of a better reflection, there is a sort of balm in that shameless truth. To know he keeps company with someone who would not think him the worser of two broken pieces.

Comfort lives there, as it lives beneath his hand when she fits it to her hip, reiterating sallowing bruises, much like the ones across his throat. He contents himself with reviving them under pressure, gripping her with surety and purpose as he draws her near, just as he contents himself with chasing the fingertips at his lips with his teeth.

Perhaps she hopes for more. If not, he imagines he'll soon know.

She lets out another little sound of pleasure, and her hips buck unbidden. It's a little embarrassing, she knows, but she tries to keep in mind how Gabranth's made his enjoyment clear. Not as clear as she'd like, maybe, but not everyone rings like a bell. He's said he doesn't know how to talk during this. She can't change that with pure willpower or petty nagging. It just is.

She kisses his hairline, touches the softness of his mouth, breathes into his brow. "Please," she murmurs into his skin. Her free hand finds the clasp she had worked on earlier, trying to undress him. "Can I have the rest of you now?"

Maybe he likes begging. That could be interesting.

Her answer comes easily. Then again, maybe it never stood as much of a mystery, than a man with an ego as endlessly hard-wrought and adamantine as the armor that he wears, enjoys being catered to by an equal. Were she nobility, this might not be so.

Yet thankfully for the both of them, they remain blissfully leashed to their undignified pasts; there is no glimpse of guilt to be seen in the wake of that question, only the further scuff of his profile against her within reach, the shadowed glint of his eyes as his gaze upturns with vivid focus, grip left tight in roaming— before he relents in leaning back to grant her room to work.

Dressed in high collar, few buckles, a simple mixture of cloth and leather in a faint mirror of his armor, though far simpler a thing to unmake.

In the meanwhile he worries at her shoulder, chases her hips with his fingers, his knuckles, impatient. Always impatient.

For herself, she hasn't figured it out yet. As much as she likes to think herself a keen judge of character, a great deal of Gabranth remains mysterious. But she understands enough to know she can take off his shirt, now, which is enough of a blessing she'll happily take. It's off as quickly as she can manage it, and then she's back to kissing him hungrily, rocking into his touch.

She finds herself similarly impatient, after what she considers restraint. It wasn't much, she knows, but she was trying. She certainly wouldn't have expended that effort for someone else. So the hand not scratching at his chest reaches down between his legs, palming him shamelessly through thick fabric.

His eyes drift shut, his attention turned fully to the rise of one slow, steady inhale— bracing and necessary under the weight of her touch. In the rest of this exchange he finds it endurable, bearable, to be relatively at ease and in control of his own urges, but even through the barrier of thick leather, there’s no suppressing the faint shudder that crawls up along his spine. No erasing the way his fingers where they’re perched (just lower than the jut of her hip, near the junction of her thighs) cinch all the more tightly in that moment. Like the memory of a fanged muzzle snapping shut.

And there, in the span of a few fever-warm seconds, he pulls her to him, demanding the pressure of her hips across his lap, rather than just the bare exploration of her palm.

Wordless, still, until he tries, tentatively, to add after a friction-threaded beat:

"I want you here."

She watches his face, mapping that expression into her mind. She caused that. That knowledge, that moment, should assuage everything. It doesn't, but she's needy, and she knows it.

It's why she pulls away a little, making her first proper request of the night. She had her way last time, it's only fair she's move giving this time, but she still wants to be contrary, even as she agrees.

"I'm not shagging your trousers," she says, voice playful. "Take them off yourself, and you can have what you like."

She rolls off him, leaning against the arm of the settee, knees up to her chin, watching.

It wins a look gone sharp from an even sharper gaze, brows pulled tight in a middling sort of line, creases tucked between. But beneath that irritation sleeps only fondness, for he finds strange charm in the sight of her so tightly coiled— so pleased by the amusement of her own demand.

Incorrigible.

His snort is quieter in the wake of it when he glances away, made tamer by what she so possesses, even if only by a narrow margin. He works at taut laces, narrow clasps, snaring them easily even with broader fingertips, most of them notched at the knuckles with old scars.

And once freed....he sits. Exactly as he had before, his attention fixed on her. Almost absurd in that expectancy.

No, entirely absurd in it.

Jone leans forward, moving herself back into his lap. It's slow, and she teases him with her hand instead of settling on his cock immediately. She wants to see pleasure on his face.

A kiss to the side of his mouth. "You get away with so much for being handsome," she says, practically purring. Another kiss, another tug on his cock. "Do you know that? You should know that."

“Enough.” He grouses, all teeth against the edge of her kiss, and made more so by the way she grips at him, dragging an unsteady breath from the very base of his throat— almost the edge of a sound, but not quite.

“I do not wish to be teased.”

Were his voice more iron-bound, that might work to paint his complaint seem more sincere. Or at the very least, serious.

Instead, what remains is the noise of hitching breath— his features gone unbearably tense in tangled patterns— and the impatient way he grips her in turn, as if aching for something just out of reach.

In truth, he is.

"Didn't mean to tease you," she says, close enough that it's almost whispered into his skin. "Was a compliment."

She says this as she finally lowers herself down onto him, her breath hitching in turn. She's made more than a few delays getting to this point, she knows, and they were all out of a stupid need to see him squirm. She did herself no favors, either; once she finally has that first spike of pure pleasure running through her, she finds herself terribly sensitive to it.

She had meant to watch his face while she did this, but ends up hiding in the crook of Gabranth's neck. A curse is muffled there as she tastes his skin, her hips rocking slowly.

The way she murmurs against his skin, intoxicating in the surest sense: trust between them has long since been a given, and even the longing need for comfort during the course of her recovery— the way he buckled at the first opportunity to set himself beside her— stands as testament to that unshakable reality. He longs for her. Her attention, her comforts. It is a danger, no doubt, but there is a beauty to it all that she cannot perceive. Cannot appreciate.

She means much to him, he realizes.

Of course, the only thing that finds him when he opens his mouth to both pardon her for prior statements and assert the simplicity of his affections is a single, thready groan. Useless. Unwound. He scuffs his face across her cheek, her ear, the cascade of her hair— he fits his teeth to the mark he'd left before, canting up into the movement she provides, all slick, friction-borne heat. More drunk from it than offered wine.

Jone's hands find the back of his head, and she holds him close, elbows digging into the blush back of the settee. She finds herself panting almost immediately, gasping at the wave of feeling he's set in her. She put off anything for herself-- a stupid move she may have to rectify next time, if there is one-- and it's paying off like their first encounter. Everything is hazy with sharp pleasure, the feeling of him holding her close, the movement of his hips, the feeling of his teeth.

Her breaths form into his name, repeated into his skin. She'd planned on saying something filthy to see his reaction, but instead she's left with flowery nothings. All I need you and please don't stop. If she could be distracted enough to feel embarrassment, she would be.

A reprise, yet not so much of one that he’s made useless by the sharp plunge of sensation, her grip so warm as to be feverish, her voice— every pattern it weaves— only driving him further into both her and her arms, a tangle of shadows and movement in dim light, for he’d let the sun set in her presence and never once spared it thought in the aftermath.

What does he care. Why would he care. He observes her with his roaming touch, with every rock of his wanting hips and hungry heart, and this time— thankfully— he is grounded enough to continue long enough to listen to the litany she speaks. He cannot last eternally, no, but—

Perhaps long enough, he thinks, even as his nails draw marks across her spine.

It's a bright burst of feeling, one after another, and unlike last time, she can think through the want of it. Not much, but... more. She feels more herself, than someone desperately worrying over what Gabranth thinks, who he thinks of in moments like these.

It's not that she doesn't care. It's that she can forget caring, and that's the person she'd prefer to be, given the choice.

She usually prefers to wait until after, but now? She snakes one hand down between her thighs, positioning herself at a better angle. The hand at Gabranth's head falls to his shoulder, scraping along it with blunt nails, as a long whine escapes her.

This suits. This more than suits, it is better than the drive of a blade in hand, better than the prickling rush of adrenaline in his veins, the sound of bone and sinew torn asunder.

He has no promise of it, beyond the sound of a voice gone hoarse from gasping, from growling, from groaning— he fights to keep pace, bucking rough and harsh as he can sense the span of his own restraint coming untethered at the edges. It is inelegant, coarse as the scars he bears. Frenetic, and shamelessly so.

What need have they for softness, for sweetness? It has no home in them.

He wants only her.

Jone is left nuzzling into Gabranth's shoulder, making a mess of it. Alternatively biting and kissing, she thinks herself in love with the smell of his skin, the sweat he's worked up, the hoarse sound of his voice.

The only words she can manage anymore is a litany of, "please, please."

Her hips grind against his, responding to his furious pace. In this moment, she knows what it is to be utterly wanted. Her earlier insecurities wither, at least for a little while.

"More, please."

But she's never been able to take what she has with contentment, however grand.

Neither has he, in truth. Ever straining for more and more— not out of greed, but restlessness, a closed fist borne from insecurity.

He despises words, they are so often empty promises, yet hers sing of their own accord, ringing in his ears like a prayer spurring him to madness. The bitter smell of sweat clinging to the air, familiar and comforting to a creature meant for battle. He is no less enamored. No less lost.

More, in fact— as his attention flickers white-hot at the seams— knuckles tight with a biting grip, senses surging into a sudden, blissful peak: like footing lost at the edge of a ravine, the pull of its gravity is merciless, quick and knifing. He fixes a hand to her shoulder, locking her against him, grip gone cruel for his own satisfaction in climax—

Jone can tell what's happening, and attends to it. She moves her hand, so both claw at his sides; her head turns further to the side, to allow him more space to bite.

It's always a little thrill, for her. When she's with someone at this stage, she knows entirely what her job is, and the world is utterly simple. She did well, and she's to keep that up.

Still, it makes her shiver. The heat of it, and Gabranth's tenuous grip on his control, his stuttering hips and the roughness he proceeds with. She's always liked that. It's so much more interesting.

An old litany reemerges, "I have you, I do, I won't let go-" As though she's any choice in the matter, but it's always a grand thing, to feel wanted

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.

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