There is no better aim than that. No greater hope to be stolen from life itself— either blessed or cursed.
He rests his cheek across her shoulder in turn, his eyes half-lidded, staring drowsily at the ceiling overhead, studying nothing in particular but the give of his own thoughts.
“Am I to take it this means you will instead remain here tonight?”
It is wry. His lips twist when he speaks, just the barest, near-imperceptible difference.
Jone looks up just in time to catch that almost-smile, and it warms her heart. She wonders if she is so starved for scraps this will suffice, or... she may truly be in love with a difficult, delicate creature.
It's difficult, at times, to tell. She's had no great or little loves in life, but has known for some time she wanted one. How do you tell the difference, between nothing at all and a surfeit of the stuff?
Idly, she kisses his ear again, soft and affectionate. "I had thought you preferred your privacy. It'll be much harder to hide this, me sneaking out in the morning."
That's why he didn't stay with her last time, isn't it?
“I prefer your security.” He corrects, caught between a pinching mixture of stern determination and thready tension beneath the warm press of her lips to his ear, dizzying the edges of his dour bearing. “I do not wish your efforts to be misconstrued by colleagues or betters— ”
Then why does the thought of her remaining here tip the scales so? Why does it now calm him, more than the thought of her absence? Selfishness?
Such a thing cannot have a home in him. And yet—
“Yet if one leaves early enough in the morning, perhaps no notice will be taken, provided you are present for any mending efforts on part of the healers Emperor Gramis has sent.”
She wants to reassure him, and she's not sure why. The way he talks, bringing formality into a shared bed, it's... odd. How could her efforts be misconstrued? She is doing the very thing gossip is made about.
It occurs to her that he may think her a valiant creature beyond the borders of her actions. She's not sure how, or what shape that would even take, and yet the idea has its appeal. Maybe that's why he treats her with such distance.
She kisses him again, unsure what else to do with the thought. Her lips find his cheekbone, and she laughs. "Don't worry," she says. "The healers don't bother me anymore. I can take some time for you."
Maybe not all night. But she can be fast, and rises quickly. She'll give him what time she has.
Why would he not think her valiant? She has— by the standards of a Judge Magister— been no less. Her viciousness, her loyalty, her simple tightly-adhered truths. He views her as nothing less than that. Considers nothing else but that. His world is narrow, its concepts ever the definition of cut and dry.
“I am not asking for sex, Jone.” Voice gone mild as he tries to keep hold of her in her withdrawal— their thoughts at odds in this moment (though her delight no less cherished for it, the heat of her mouth no less welcome).
Then again, as his gaze shifts to take in the sight of her, he realizes he is...not against the idea of it, either.
"I wasn't offering-" She means to give him a playful shove, prepared for him to bristle and willing to do it anyway. (If he's to become accustomed to her, she'll have to stop cutting pieces of herself away to fit into a shape he may not, actually, want to begin with. He wants her right? That's what he said? Implied? She can't tell anymore.)
And then she catches his look, canine in its acuity, and finds there's heat beyond the usual shadow of his rage. She swallows slowly, finding the intensity of his stare an easy thing to respond to. An easy thing to return.
"D'you wanna try asking now?"
To return, and then drop, breaking into a teasing smile.
It grazes the near edge of something fond. Potentially teasing in turn, though he lacks the delicacy of a softer expression, voice poorly suited to this game— his fingertips rising regardless, reaching to settle low against the hem of her shirt, knotting it within his grasp with ember-dull hunger. Due to be kindled into flame.
Jone, straining to hear every breath he takes, finds that humor. She wants to cradle it and let it grow. Laughing and joking helps her, at the very least; it makes the world seem so much less dire and pointless. Maybe, some day, it could help him, even a little.
Her fingers trace his jaw. "I could be persuaded," she says, "you're very persuasive, when you look like this."
“That word is not one traditionally used to describe me.” Pale eyes narrowing, exhale slow through his nose as he focuses more on the sight of her than the sound of her words— or the flex of them. The meaning that they hold.
Incapable of self-reflection, he can only measure her impression of him against the rough shapes of his past. Always, something feels misaligned.
Tonight, he lets that lie.
“But if it means yet more time in your presence, unguarded and unrestrained, then I believe you know already what I ask of you in this moment.” He raises the hem of her shirt, slides his harsh-edged palm beneath it, a difference of inches without crudeness or cruelty. His exploration uniquely patient, now that he knows she will not vanish from his grasp.
“Temptation, you have named yourself in my sight.”
She means to clarify, teasing gently, calling him handsome and seeing what he'll do. Instead, he finds the prettiest words in his arsenal-- it seems-- and holds them out to her like jewelry. She hasn't a clue how to express how much that means to her, the implication she's beautiful, or at least tempting.
It means so much from Gabranth especially, a man seemingly incapable of even accidental falsehood.
Her legs intertwine with his, passionately hungry for his touch. It happens so quickly she can barely stand it. "Yes," she says, meaninglessly. Her hands bunch at the fabric of his shirt. "I think... I need you very badly."
To someone else, it might read as insult. Uncouthness, or a sign of poorer politesse. Gabranth favors it. Turns his head towards the press of her lips, catches the underside of her jaw with his opposite hand as its twin roams ever higher: mapping muscle, warm contours, scarred skin— every fraction of it a piece of her being, and no less worthy of his attention than the kiss that consumes him for one potent, hungry moment.
She kisses him, heady with need of it. Her hips grind into his, her hands drift to his back, all moving with the rising heat of her desire for him. In a strange twist, she doesn't have the words to explain how much this means.
"Now you know just what to say," between breaths, between kisses. She can't think of how to finish that. Let the statement stand.
“I am learning.” He breathes, a single note of pride catching in time with her own exhale. Equally as fleeting.
The rest of his contact, less so.
He grounds himself in his hold on her. In the feel of her warmth held against him. Takes her shift as opportunity, rising to meet the scuff and scrape of her hands as he pulls at her shirt— far from remorseful over needing to distance it from her for the second time in a single night. Like the ritual of cleaning armor, polishing a blade, he’s come to enjoy the practice for its own sake. The promise of what gives chase when it is done.
His mouth to the center of her chest. The dull drag of teeth against her skin when he kisses— bites— as he cares to, unhindered.
"You're succeedi- ah-" And then he's kissing her chest, biting at her, and she finds herself quivering under his touch. It's pathetic, isn't it? Probably. He doesn't mind, though, and she can't find it within herself to be embarrassed.
Her hands find his back, shirt hiked up, just so she can drag her fingers down, nails scraping.
This is different. He's gotten... better? He's taking an interest beyond just rushing to have her knickers off. She tries not to get her hopes too high up, but it's hard when, well, he is. Such a gorgeous man, and all she wants, at times, is to be under his hands. It feels, for a moment, like what she imagines love might.
Prone to judgment, those edicts live outside the drag of his hands across her skin, the way she claws at him— speaks to him in caught praise. She could say almost anything to him, do almost anything to him here, and he would still think her the sun in all her ember-lit radiance. The constellations of his world mapped across her skin.
He also, in truth, would think very little at all beyond the press of his own hunger in the back of his mind. That he now has a touch more endurance for the ordeal to spare does not negate his focus or his wants: this is a prolonged exchange, not a shifted one.
So Gabranth topples her at first opportunity, pressing her to the mattress and using one hand to claw his shirt free, rather than leaving it tangled up across her knuckles. He kisses at her still as his weight bears across her, a new trail of attention. Another set of reddened marks she’ll keep masked within dark armor.
She likes the weight of him, is the thing. Jone is a creature of contradictory wants. At times, she wishes to push, for control and power. At other times, like now, there is the heady need to be subsumed.
She stares up at him as though he stitched the stars into the sky. Her hands find his back again, tearing at the skin, as her chest heaves under his touch. Her back arches.
Yet for all the willingness to be crushed underneath him, a part of her will never retreat. She grabs at his wrist and pulls his hand to the junction of her thighs. "Please," she says underneath a groan, "please, Gabranth."
Fortunate for Gabranth and his accumulated difficulties in navigating the unwonted, physical behavior is, in truth, his strongest suit. Words, ever deceitful or difficult, give pause, but here—
It is in many aspects, no different from combat. If he presses and she does the same, then her intent is made clear. If he bears down and she does not, he understands her desire to yield. To cede advantage.
And, when she draws his hand low, low between her thighs, there is no room for mistaken assumption. There also remains scant room for his own confidence in what proves instead faintly unfamiliar territory, though he— carved from the backbone of determination— neither flinches nor shies away from the opportunity: it is all her, he desires this no less. His mouth fits against the underside of her jaw, his hands work in diligent measures to free her from the constraints of her trousers before easing against her once more. One palm at her hip as brace, the other settled deeper against febrile softness, knuckles brushing, fingertips impatient when he feels out slick heat. Sinking in without a breath or word of warning.
He only speaks afterwards, the edges of his teeth clipping skin as he corrects:
"Noah?" Is that some foreign word for desire? The thought-- logic with it-- flees from her mind. He is not the most skilled in this art, but the simple act of applying himself to something she hungers so much for- she bucks into him, making her pleasure obvious with sound and movement, anything to catch the heat and shape of him. Her mouth finds the skin of his shoulder, the old wound. His skin still smells of stale sweat. She revels in it.
It's something she's wanted since their first kiss. The fact that this has been a persistent personal fantasy only makes his fumbling more profound, his task easier.
If his touch failed to please, he imagines he would know of it soon enough. In frustration she would fit either herself or him wherever needed. The thought does not distress him when it rises to the surface beneath her scrabbling movements; it is a comfort, as it remains tirelessly true that his ego is swept up in many things, yet not this.
A sign of trust between them. Fresh-bloomed, but no less potent in its make.
That she cants herself into his touch is further fulfillment of such feedback. That she whispers his name—
He leans into the workings of her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. His weight thrown behind the press of his fingertips, dragging them— and himself— away from her with every thrust. It is a fire in his blood. A heat between his teeth and in his gut, wanting. Craving.
Temptation indeed, as he works at her, and still yearns ever for more.
A great deal of heady sensations, all at once. Jone returns what she can, scratching and biting-- he must love that, or he'd have complained by now-- and saying that name, over and over in his ear, his shoulder, his throat. Every bit of skin she can touch with her mouth. As sexual proclivities go, pretending to be someone else in bed is tame. Whoever Noah is, he must be... very fit.
If she flits a hand down to occasionally adjust his form, there are surely worse things. He must be used to her wanton demands by now. The old staple fits into this new frame. "Harder, Noah, please-"
It does not occur to him that she lacks context for his request. It also does not matter, as the means is drowned beneath the surface of sensation it weaves when combined with touch and tension and roaming, pinpoint demand: her fingers direct him, her requests inspire fervor— he snaps his teeth at her shoulder, before the impatient, near painful buildup of frictionless yearning is unbearable.
He cannot endure more without shared sensation, and so his fingertips withdraw in a hurried rush of movement, fleeing instead towards the waistband of his trousers, tugging harshly at them to free himself.
Ungraceful compared to his usual deft precision, borne of impossible avidity, it does not matter. Nothing matters, save for the hold he fixes on her hips when he levels himself against her— when he trades the rough set of scarred fingertips for the span of his own arousal, breath snared in the base of his throat.
She still feels lit up like a firework, waiting to go off, and there he is, bearing down. Watching him fumble with his drawers is a treat. Watching him undress, she could do that for hours. She's about to whistle, just to see if he reacts at all, when he's pinned her down again, and she falls back onto the bed laughing.
She rubs a wrist against a sharp cheekbone, fingers tracing his ear, and has a moment to murmur something sweet and stupid before he's on her again. "I could look at you for an age, Noah."
He is too lost to pressure and relief, both indescribably intertwined, to speak as normally he would. Be dignified, be courteous, be respectful, be aware— consider purpose and person: a tireless list of procedures to be kept to at all times, and in that moment all those failsafes fail him, prompting an unsteady, gritted sound as he eases into place. As he finds the meager start of a canting rhythm.
His face falls across her forearm, eyes shut. Inhale slow, words unsteady.
If she were in a more analytical mode-- in any mode but the one she's in, mind stretched taunt with overwhelming sensation-- she would wonder at this. How does it factor into the name? Would he say this normally? How do these elements aligh?
As it is, she only has him to contend with. She can remember what name to use, and not much else. One hand draws up, petting at the nape of his neck. "Not for you. Never for you."
It is a terrible burden, to be loved. To love. He has lost the shape of it to bitterness, to time— but the sound of her voice and the promises she holds are like the first gracing breaths of life in dulled ash, and were he not so uninhibited in this moment, he might shy from them like something wounded.
Like a man who has fit himself into the hollows of cold armor, holding fast to it for frigid relief.
Instead, she has it all. All. Every fragment of him that there is to offer in this moment, every roll and rise of his hips, as he sinks his teeth into the map of her already marked skin, as he lifts her higher to drag that much harder against her with each friction-laced thrust— there is no point where his loyalty ends, and his unconditional endearment begins.
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no subject
He rests his cheek across her shoulder in turn, his eyes half-lidded, staring drowsily at the ceiling overhead, studying nothing in particular but the give of his own thoughts.
“Am I to take it this means you will instead remain here tonight?”
It is wry. His lips twist when he speaks, just the barest, near-imperceptible difference.
no subject
It's difficult, at times, to tell. She's had no great or little loves in life, but has known for some time she wanted one. How do you tell the difference, between nothing at all and a surfeit of the stuff?
Idly, she kisses his ear again, soft and affectionate. "I had thought you preferred your privacy. It'll be much harder to hide this, me sneaking out in the morning."
That's why he didn't stay with her last time, isn't it?
no subject
Then why does the thought of her remaining here tip the scales so? Why does it now calm him, more than the thought of her absence? Selfishness?
Such a thing cannot have a home in him. And yet—
“Yet if one leaves early enough in the morning, perhaps no notice will be taken, provided you are present for any mending efforts on part of the healers Emperor Gramis has sent.”
no subject
It occurs to her that he may think her a valiant creature beyond the borders of her actions. She's not sure how, or what shape that would even take, and yet the idea has its appeal. Maybe that's why he treats her with such distance.
She kisses him again, unsure what else to do with the thought. Her lips find his cheekbone, and she laughs. "Don't worry," she says. "The healers don't bother me anymore. I can take some time for you."
Maybe not all night. But she can be fast, and rises quickly. She'll give him what time she has.
no subject
“I am not asking for sex, Jone.” Voice gone mild as he tries to keep hold of her in her withdrawal— their thoughts at odds in this moment (though her delight no less cherished for it, the heat of her mouth no less welcome).
Then again, as his gaze shifts to take in the sight of her, he realizes he is...not against the idea of it, either.
Ah.
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And then she catches his look, canine in its acuity, and finds there's heat beyond the usual shadow of his rage. She swallows slowly, finding the intensity of his stare an easy thing to respond to. An easy thing to return.
"D'you wanna try asking now?"
To return, and then drop, breaking into a teasing smile.
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It grazes the near edge of something fond. Potentially teasing in turn, though he lacks the delicacy of a softer expression, voice poorly suited to this game— his fingertips rising regardless, reaching to settle low against the hem of her shirt, knotting it within his grasp with ember-dull hunger. Due to be kindled into flame.
Unmistakable all the same.
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Her fingers trace his jaw. "I could be persuaded," she says, "you're very persuasive, when you look like this."
Well-kissed, bruised, and in her arms.
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Incapable of self-reflection, he can only measure her impression of him against the rough shapes of his past. Always, something feels misaligned.
Tonight, he lets that lie.
“But if it means yet more time in your presence, unguarded and unrestrained, then I believe you know already what I ask of you in this moment.” He raises the hem of her shirt, slides his harsh-edged palm beneath it, a difference of inches without crudeness or cruelty. His exploration uniquely patient, now that he knows she will not vanish from his grasp.
“Temptation, you have named yourself in my sight.”
no subject
It means so much from Gabranth especially, a man seemingly incapable of even accidental falsehood.
Her legs intertwine with his, passionately hungry for his touch. It happens so quickly she can barely stand it. "Yes," she says, meaninglessly. Her hands bunch at the fabric of his shirt. "I think... I need you very badly."
Another kiss, this one to the side of his mouth.
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To someone else, it might read as insult. Uncouthness, or a sign of poorer politesse. Gabranth favors it. Turns his head towards the press of her lips, catches the underside of her jaw with his opposite hand as its twin roams ever higher: mapping muscle, warm contours, scarred skin— every fraction of it a piece of her being, and no less worthy of his attention than the kiss that consumes him for one potent, hungry moment.
He lifts his leg, bears it between hers.
“Consider such truths mutual, Judge Magister.”
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"Now you know just what to say," between breaths, between kisses. She can't think of how to finish that. Let the statement stand.
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The rest of his contact, less so.
He grounds himself in his hold on her. In the feel of her warmth held against him. Takes her shift as opportunity, rising to meet the scuff and scrape of her hands as he pulls at her shirt— far from remorseful over needing to distance it from her for the second time in a single night. Like the ritual of cleaning armor, polishing a blade, he’s come to enjoy the practice for its own sake. The promise of what gives chase when it is done.
His mouth to the center of her chest. The dull drag of teeth against her skin when he kisses— bites— as he cares to, unhindered.
no subject
Her hands find his back, shirt hiked up, just so she can drag her fingers down, nails scraping.
This is different. He's gotten... better? He's taking an interest beyond just rushing to have her knickers off. She tries not to get her hopes too high up, but it's hard when, well, he is. Such a gorgeous man, and all she wants, at times, is to be under his hands. It feels, for a moment, like what she imagines love might.
no subject
He also, in truth, would think very little at all beyond the press of his own hunger in the back of his mind. That he now has a touch more endurance for the ordeal to spare does not negate his focus or his wants: this is a prolonged exchange, not a shifted one.
So Gabranth topples her at first opportunity, pressing her to the mattress and using one hand to claw his shirt free, rather than leaving it tangled up across her knuckles. He kisses at her still as his weight bears across her, a new trail of attention. Another set of reddened marks she’ll keep masked within dark armor.
Subterfuge in a palace already full of it.
no subject
She stares up at him as though he stitched the stars into the sky. Her hands find his back again, tearing at the skin, as her chest heaves under his touch. Her back arches.
Yet for all the willingness to be crushed underneath him, a part of her will never retreat. She grabs at his wrist and pulls his hand to the junction of her thighs. "Please," she says underneath a groan, "please, Gabranth."
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It is in many aspects, no different from combat. If he presses and she does the same, then her intent is made clear. If he bears down and she does not, he understands her desire to yield. To cede advantage.
And, when she draws his hand low, low between her thighs, there is no room for mistaken assumption. There also remains scant room for his own confidence in what proves instead faintly unfamiliar territory, though he— carved from the backbone of determination— neither flinches nor shies away from the opportunity: it is all her, he desires this no less. His mouth fits against the underside of her jaw, his hands work in diligent measures to free her from the constraints of her trousers before easing against her once more. One palm at her hip as brace, the other settled deeper against febrile softness, knuckles brushing, fingertips impatient when he feels out slick heat. Sinking in without a breath or word of warning.
He only speaks afterwards, the edges of his teeth clipping skin as he corrects:
“Noah.”
no subject
It's something she's wanted since their first kiss. The fact that this has been a persistent personal fantasy only makes his fumbling more profound, his task easier.
Noah is a name, isn't it? "Noah."
no subject
A sign of trust between them. Fresh-bloomed, but no less potent in its make.
That she cants herself into his touch is further fulfillment of such feedback. That she whispers his name—
He leans into the workings of her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. His weight thrown behind the press of his fingertips, dragging them— and himself— away from her with every thrust. It is a fire in his blood. A heat between his teeth and in his gut, wanting. Craving.
Temptation indeed, as he works at her, and still yearns ever for more.
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If she flits a hand down to occasionally adjust his form, there are surely worse things. He must be used to her wanton demands by now. The old staple fits into this new frame. "Harder, Noah, please-"
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He cannot endure more without shared sensation, and so his fingertips withdraw in a hurried rush of movement, fleeing instead towards the waistband of his trousers, tugging harshly at them to free himself.
Ungraceful compared to his usual deft precision, borne of impossible avidity, it does not matter. Nothing matters, save for the hold he fixes on her hips when he levels himself against her— when he trades the rough set of scarred fingertips for the span of his own arousal, breath snared in the base of his throat.
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She rubs a wrist against a sharp cheekbone, fingers tracing his ear, and has a moment to murmur something sweet and stupid before he's on her again. "I could look at you for an age, Noah."
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His face falls across her forearm, eyes shut. Inhale slow, words unsteady.
“—you would waste an age to do so.”
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As it is, she only has him to contend with. She can remember what name to use, and not much else. One hand draws up, petting at the nape of his neck. "Not for you. Never for you."
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Like a man who has fit himself into the hollows of cold armor, holding fast to it for frigid relief.
Instead, she has it all. All. Every fragment of him that there is to offer in this moment, every roll and rise of his hips, as he sinks his teeth into the map of her already marked skin, as he lifts her higher to drag that much harder against her with each friction-laced thrust— there is no point where his loyalty ends, and his unconditional endearment begins.
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