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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

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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.

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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.

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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.”