(Untitled)

[population_ctrl]

Title: Traditionalists.
Setting: Modern AU.
Date: 3rd of July, 2012.
Summary: He’s been saving up his morphine pills all day because he wants to have sex with Mireille and he’d really rather like Lucretia to leave by her own accord so he doesn’t have to tell her.

Comments

[population_ctrl]

With Mireille, signals are often return to sender. She’s not a blank surface, taking and reflecting without absorbing - he knows as much because he’s seen her without make-up on the bad days too, even if he’d rather not think about it. So that’s not it - rather, she receives with an empty sort of transmission and if he were the type to be uncertain around others, he’d never want to go near her. For fear of making the wrong move, of having no reference to support his conclusions. But Jean Louis likes the challenge, driving blindly with full capacity for failure; and when he joins her in bed, sitting down next to her and waiting for her to seat herself fully beside him, all he feels is anticipation.

It’s always a pleasure, knowing that no matter what she thinks she needs, he will have her innermost wishes covered, simply by virtue of his own preferences. Leading her. Taking her. Placing her back into a solid context, like she’s been denied for most of her life. He looks at her, at the way her hair leaves streaks of mahogany trailing all over her shoulders and down her back. In the darkness, everything gains a natural shade, an emphasis. Wanting her tonight is easy, as easy as it’s ever been.

“Mireille.”

He looks at her, waiting to be acknowledged. Not because he has to but because it seems fitting. Like a small detail he’d like to fix for the sake of the bigger picture. And he knows she’ll comply and play along, which is what makes all of this so extremely satisfying.

[unreadability]

He takes his place next to her, which is currently with a full view of her back. She continues combing her hair with her fingers, if only to reserve the time as her own. It isn’t that she’s jealous of Lucretia - Madame Dual who obviously harbours a great desire to exchange two letters of her family name with three of Mireille’s. Jean Louis’. Jean Louis has left behind a trail of women, undoubtedly and Mireille hasn’t inquired as to their… names. Surely they’re forgettable, if he has found no reason to bring them up. Whereas Sicily fuels quite the attraction, quite the train of association. With his frequent private trips and his many unofficial visits. To and by her. Yet, it isn’t jealousy as much as it’s recognition. Mireille has watched them, often enough. Together. The similarities are striking; from complexion to posture. Attitude. Even the Italians have a tendency to confuse Jean Louis with one of their own. Because in certain aspects, he is. Isn’t that so? To a fault.

Lying down next to him, without changing his view, she arranges herself in successive measurements. The length of her hair. The length of her nightgown. The length of her duvet, when she pulls it up - over the generous display of her legs and thighs. The heavy fabric falling in layers around the curve of her bottom. Placement that requires a pause, while she waits for the signals to settle.

“It’s half past eight.” Her voice is neutral. His night medication isn’t administered until 21.15, taking effects within an hour. They haven’t had sex in weeks, of course. At this point, she’d prefer… She’d prefer, because she shan’t deny that she wants him, but neither shall she doubt that someone else wants him more. Too.

[population_ctrl]

Until she covers herself, all he pays attention to is the bared skin of her legs and thighs, pale contrasting with artificial pink. Eyes roaming over her back, the pristine brown reflexes of her hair and the lines of her body. Even beneath the duvet, the shape of her silhouette is blatantly obvious; round hips, a narrow waist and the soft curves of her shoulders. Settling down on his side, he stays silent for some time, letting her observation (somewhat unnecessary) fade into nothing between them. Feels the familiar sense of arousal, even if his body doesn’t respond to it as readily as it should. Well, either way. He won’t need it for this anyway.

Reaching out, the ruined muscles in his shoulder completely numb, he places his palm flat against her hip on top of the duvet. Impressively he manages not to simply drop his hand onto her; his arm has been out of commission for long enough that it takes a conscious effort. Shifting closer, ignoring the uncomfortable heat of his flannel pyjamas, he finds himself pressed up against her, his front against her back and his nose buried in her hair. Breathing her in, one long drag of air at a time. The past many weeks, it hasn’t even struck his mind; that his breathing is an anomaly, not a matter of course. That in theory, somewhere down on that silly little dust-ridden savannah, there are people who’ve failed. Because he’s still alive. But starting over the way they’re doing together now, him and Mireille; searching for a rhythm to copy the one that died, to stand in for the one that’s to come - makes him acutely aware. That in most respects, he’s been rather lucky. It doesn’t mean much to him aside from the obvious: that he truly does have the capacity for everything and in most respects, it’s entirely satisfying. Emphasised today - while Lucretia is a pretty distraction, she’s past. From days when the puzzle was less complete.

Hand sliding up her thigh slowly, he presses it against her lower abdomen, a firm, unrelenting kind of touch. Leans in further, lips trailing over her neck.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice low, bordering on a whisper. He’s not just talking about the time. “To us.”

Shifting enough to free his other hand, he strokes her hair lightly, the strands soft between his fingers. Remains in a waiting-position, though he’s pushing her into action all the same. Invading her personal space because she’s made it necessary tonight. As is proper sometimes, when he crosses the invisible line and has to backtrack to help her catch up.

[unreadability]

The distance between them decreases by the second, as he wraps himself around her with his usual assertiveness. Strings of movement; every signal implying that he wants to have sex. With her. It’s a confirmation rather than a statement, isn’t it? Seeing how he’s already been watching her with an expression that told her so much. A few minutes ago, before she turned her back on him. Now he’s pushing up against her, pushing her onwards - although the hand closer to her mons than her stomach is holding her in place, in contrast. Firmly. His signals aren’t contradictory, of course. The process of transfer simply translates them into ambiguity. Because of her place in the middle. The liaison. Much like the one they engaged in, when she was still 18 and Father had no reason… to voice concerns.

A deep, only slightly shaking breath. The heat of his palm is palpable through the thin, artificial fabric of her nightgown. It isn’t silk, albeit it pretends to be and the percentage of cotton forgettable amongst the rest. His hand isn’t soft either, neither would she expect it to be. Currently, it’s caught between her body and her body’s reaction. Her lack of reaction to it - the warmth running its course right beneath her skin, spreading to her lower abdomen, transformed into something solid and sensitive. Responsive where Mireille isn’t, herself. By choice.

Finally, she moves. To the side. Enough to glance at him over one shoulder, the brown shadows of her hair between his fingers leaving the lines of his jaw and lips strongly pronounced. It’s not something she has consciously bemoaned, how they’ve been unable to have sex. Their daily lives weren’t dictated by it before the shooting and in hospital, weekends quickly lose their distinctiveness, isn’t that so? The days aren’t the same, but undeniably alike. He’ll take his medication at 8-10-12-15-18-21 o’clock, whether it’s Tuesday or Sunday. Every day, she makes them both a latte at 14.00; he hasn’t been allowed to drink espressos yet. As such, she won’t encourage him.

“You can’t, Jean Louis.”

In order to tell the both of them. Without any particular stress. Surely, he already knew. Knows.

[population_ctrl]

For a second, he thinks she’s moving away from him. Denying him by physical distance as well as her turned back. Instead, she looks at him and verbalises her reservations, the words hanging in the air between them uselessly. His hand freezing against her abdomen for a few seconds as he tries his best to ignore that feeling of embarrassment that his current limitations have introduced. Insecurity of any kind is very uncharacteristic of him and consequently, he does his best to pretend that it doesn’t exist. Swallows down a snappish reply and pushes her backwards, forcing her over onto her back the rest of the way.

“You’re wrong.” Giving her a very thin smile, expression caught between resentment and an arrogant kind of amusement (the latter only somewhat forced), he raises his right arm and runs his hand down the side of her face. His shoulder feels nonexistent now; like there’s a part of his body that’s simply ceased to be. As such, the movement is coordinated mostly by vision. It’s not meant a show of gentleness, of course. They don’t do that. Rather, it’s a way to contradict her claims - and he emphasises the message by letting his hand trail further down, over her shoulder and collarbone, cupping one breast firmly through the thin layer of her nightgown. Keeping her from turning away.

Then, he leans down and kisses her. Pushes his tongue against her lips, giving her the opportunity to accept the invitation this time, even if the choice isn’t really being granted. It never is between them; besides, she never, truly refuses, rendering its lack inherently unimportant.

[unreadability]

Her words are disproven less by his answer in its simplicity than by his actions in response. Of course she doesn’t refuse him as he pushes her onto her back, the 90 degrees of movement without importance out of context. The context he creates, however - the one she’s given to which she must apply her analyses, is undeniable. So she doesn’t deny him either, when he adds these elements of their usual physicality. His hand cupping her breast an argument in itself. Her body responds instinctively and she… lets it. Lets him. Her back arching slightly, into the right amount of pressure, the right angle and the right shape. Of them both.

Because, if nothing else, she recognises him, his progress. Like this. Through a return to their point of origin. Neither of them are pretending that nothing has changed along with their surroundings, the setting a sufficient reminder, surely. Yet, it’s obvious that she has needed to notice it herself, isn’t that so? After the… wait. With how she could forget, even momentarily, that Jean Louis is all but unstoppable unless by his own accord. That he rarely comes to any noteworthy halt. That to her, he’s always been forward motion. He’ll pay the price for this tomorrow, certainly - but Jean Louis has never feared consequences, instead changing their outcome into compliance. She’s learned from him, from a very young age; after the distance prevented Father…

As is conscious routine by now, she meets him. Parts her lips. Sex doesn’t lose to repetition. There are only so many ways to initiate intercourse and none of them are reduced to boredom. Not with him.

[population_ctrl]

It’s not so much about taste now as it’s about sensations; the feel of her tongue sliding against his, the heat of her mouth. The wetness. It’s a prelude, of course - he doesn’t usually plan ahead when it comes to intercourse, but tonight things are a little different. Necessarily so. And he knows exactly where he wants her, though getting her there might... take a little work. He’s not lazy, happily. Nor is he afraid of a challenge.

Deepening the kiss, he runs his hand further down her body. Pushes her nightgown up over her thighs and presses his palm against her sex, hand flat between her legs. Her panties are thin and forgettable, though the feel of fabric is a quick reminder not to... rush. It’s definitely been too long; getting hard might take him a while in his current state, but the physical sensation of arousal is thoroughly present regardless. He wants her. A lot. Breaking the kiss, he draws away only minimally, unwilling to decrease body contact by more than inches. He needs to push them forwards, however, even if he’ll have to strike a pace slower than what he’d prefer. After all, no woman’s been wooed successfully by explicit desperation.

So he holds back, forces himself not to simply push his fingers beneath her panties and in, bending his neck and kissing her collarbone, tongue tracing a damp path upwards, teeth grazing the thin skin beneath her earlobe very slightly. His breathing growing heavier, the effort of going step-by-step making his body feel tense with impatience.

[unreadability]

He restores his arm to a state of normalcy - undoubtedly by conscious effort and an amount of morphine that she should wonder as to the hows about; his fingers brushing over the contours of her sex, spreading out until it’s increased into a sensation of palm against labia. Motion that pulls an exhalation from her lungs, long and shaky in adherence to her body’s immediate response. It is how Jean Louis approaches his world, of course; one that she’s part of, by proximity and by choice. He paints in the form of circles, doesn’t he? Draws them around himself, around them. Efforts on which his shoulder has no impact, because he knows his priorities perfectly. It is what renders him capable of joggling his various positions so successfully and it’s what makes her willing to overlook the resultant problematics, in favour of everything else. Everything that must matter more. Like this; his breathing heavy in her ear and his lips sliding over skin. Hers. Today he’s chosen his role as… And she’ll accept it, yet again. Gladly. In order to keep herself on the right track, right behind him. Holding on.

Reaching up, she runs her fingers through his hair. Cranes her neck, not as an offer - seeing that he’s already made his claims, but in acknowledgement. Of his wants and her own needs. The two coincide more often than not, isn’t that so? An observation which it’s bindingly necessary to make; when it’s so prominent, how she pushes her pelvis upwards, against his hand.

[population_ctrl]

For the next, long moment, everything feels familiar - from the way she’s arching up against him to the slight dampness of her panties against his fingertips. It’s not completion; nothing so sentimental or impossible. Rather, it’s simply a return to normalcy. To how things are supposed to be between them, all other variables pushed into the background. But of course, reality returns quickly enough as his body makes him aware of the one, big problem associated with this situation; while he can force his arm into rudimentary compliance, finer motor skills are different. Naturally. So while he can’t actually -feel- most of his arm, getting her off in his position won’t be possible. Even if he wants to… even if it should, logically, be quite easy to just…

Unwilling to consider the implications further (and knowing full well that it’ll end up making him angry), he rolls onto his side again, a bit abruptly, her fingers in his hair falling away. His fingers resting between her legs and the taste of her skin salty on his tongue, he gives her a smile, calmer this time before running his hand upwards to her hip. Tugging at her with persistence, if not his usual strength. Though, he doubts she knows what he wants from her now; after all, they tend to be quite traditional about their sex life. Works fine, of course, when the context remains in balance. He’s never been afraid to get creative in order to move forward, however. Mireille might even be his most illustrative case in point.

Without waiting for her to get confused, he simply turns to the one tool he’ll always have, terrorists or not. Words. “Go on.” Another tug, harder this time. His smile widens. “On top.”