βIf I wanted him here, he would come here,β Cleon says breezily, flippant and arrogant as ever. And the terrible thing was, it was probably true: by dizzying payment or threat of punishment, he could have his people black-bag any collector and drag them to the palace. Heβs convinced of it.
Jessicaβs lowered voice, that almost-purr, is seductive; revealing her hand, perhaps, but itβs precisely what he expects from a concubine anyhow.
Until. Then. Her fingertip runs down his wrist.
She was not invited to touch him, he did not tell her it was acceptable to approach yet, he should censure her for this, there should be a punishment,
but instead his breath hitches inwards, a small gasp held in his lungs, and her Bene Gesserit-trained instincts can see how his whole body runs taut and rigid. His arm turns instinctively, exposing more of his wrist to her. Thereβs still the hum of the Imperial aura beneath her touch, but sheβs evidently familiar with shield technology: the brush of her fingertip is slow enough to penetrate the invisible shield, until bare skin touches skin, until it feels like heβs been set on fire with that simple ghosting contact. His skin burning.
No one touches him. This is why the Gossamer Court exists. Like tapping a steam valve, venting that pent-up energy, that starvation.
βI have not,β Cleon says, answering her question, and itβs only a lifetime of training which still keeps his voice steady. His blue-green eyes (they match the Imperial colour) are fixed on her face now, and thereβs an indescribable shift in the air. A tip of the scales turning the temperature up a couple degrees. βHardly anyone is ever allowed to touch Empire, let alone cover him in material. It could be an absorbent toxin. It would be a dreadful security risk.β
His voice has sunk into an equally-teasing purr, matching hers.
Jessica isn't blind to the risk and danger in the boldness of her action, of daring to touch Empire, let alone without his permission. There could be punishment, censure, and even death, but if things go the way she imagines they will ( and thank the Gods or whoever is out there that they are ), it will prove to be beneficial to her in worming her way into his good graces and possibly seeing him again.
Beneath the tips of her fingers, she feels the thrum of his body, the excitement coursing through his blood and veins despite the smooth and calm exterior he presents to her β years of schooling and training have gone into shaping him into the man before her. A man so great that she herself finds hard to resist.
"Mmmm, a pitty," she hums, allowing her fingers to continue trailing up the newly exposed part of his wrist that he turns to her. "It is fun and messy. Something one should experience at least once in their lifetime. What if Empire has the paint provided? Would he possibly consider it then?"
That small threat doesn't go unnoticed, the warning that no one is allowed to touch Empire, and yet he allows the long drag of her fingers against his skin to continue.
"Or Empire could paint me if he desires, though it leaves me wondering what he truly desires beyond the stuffy talk of literature and the arts. What would truly make Empire happy?"
βSuppliers can be disrupted. Shipments can be tampered with. But my older brother mixes his own; if I used some of his paint, I imagine it would be possible. You would look lovely in blue.β And isnβt that very idea delicious: wheedling into Brother Duskβs stock and using those chromatic paints for his own enjoyment in the bedroom rather than the imperial wall. And itβs profane, most likely, a defiling of that sacred mural, using the paints that were meant for Empireβs own legacy — but thatβs why he likes the idea of it. Toying along the edges of what may or may not be allowed. Jabbing Dusk in the eye a little.
But then Jessica turns the screws by asking that particular question. What would truly make Empire happy?
Itβs a jarring inquiry, because the answer is that he doesnβt know. He does not know. He has never known. Itβs the oldest and dullest story in existence, that the richest and most powerful man in the entire known universe is nonetheless deeply unhappy — but, well, thatβs why itβs old.
Thereβs a faint pause, and she can practically see the gears turning inside Cleonβs skull as he gives that question more weight than he strictly needs to. He could have waved it off with some pithy demand (You, on your knees). In the end, however, he includes instead: βHappiness is not part of the equation.β Then, βPleasure is.β
And his hand turns, captures her own forearm; drags her closer as he leans forward, closes the distance between them, and kisses her.
There is an intensity in her gemstone gaze as she watches him mull her question over. She watches for the subtle hints she has spent years training to see. The changes in his body language to the shift in the different muscle groups of his face and eyebrows β even the way his eyes and pupils change depending on how he feels about what was asked or done.
As she scrutinizes his features, Jessica takes notice of the features that others might ignore. The crease between his brow, the fine lines etched into his forehead, and lining his eyes. Handsome features, she notes to herself as she resists the urge to reach out and touch his face. To let the tips of her fingers glide over the light splattering of freckles across his cheeks.
There will be a time for that later, she reminds herself, perhaps with too much confidence in her skills for the mission she has been tasked with. There is no room for failure. While her sisters are skilled, many lack her prowess and determination. The desire to split away from the mold to do whatever is possible to make what she wants come to fruition β much like the man before her.
Happiness is not part of the question, he tells her. Pleasure is.
He grabs her, and she allows him to pull her into him, the distance lessening and lessening until their lips clash together.
The groaning moan that escapes her lips is honest β it isn't forced or an act. Hungrily, her lips move against his. Her lips part, letting her tongue slide against his lips to take in the taste of him. Noting the remnants of wine and no poisons or toxins or other chemicals that might be in place to bring her harm or alter her state of mind ( and since she's immune to most, if not all ), she would have to fake their effect.
Slowly and carefully shifting to keep their lips locked, Jessica rises to her knees, looming over him momentarily before straddling his lap with deliberate motions not to set off the Imperial Shield after she gathers up the thin fabric of mauve skirts high upon her thighs.
Gently she nips at his lip, letting her fingers trail up the back of his neck and into his hair, where she buries and tangles slim fingers in their softness before pulling away from his lips just enough that her words and breath ghost over them, "You are Empire," she murmurs, dragging her lips over his, "you can have both. Pleasure." slowly sinking her full weight onto his lap. "Happiness. Everything is yours."
Empire is a master at rigid self-control, trained by a literal robot into glassy stillness; but he is still, at the end of the day, only human. And he is not the Bene Gesserit. Jessica can track the minute differentiations in muscle tension, the flicker in the size of his pupils, betraying his interest and attraction, the way he holds his breath and then lets it loose. Heβs practiced, but not quite practiced enough.
Itβs a slow, deliberate movement as she settles over him. Enough that the shield doesnβt crackle beneath her or repel her across the room. He feels the slight resistance β the pressure in the air, the slight delay before her weight settles into his lap, her skirts slithering higher.
But here is where his self-control fractures: Cleon makes a helpless noise as her fingers curl against the back of his neck, digging into his well-moisturised hair. This is a man who has never known a tender unthinking touch, a mother smoothing his unruly dark hair back from his imperial forehead. Demerzel was the closest thing any of them ever had to a mother, the closest any of them would ever come to a wife, and she was not soft.
Everything is yours, the concubine says, like they all say, and β
βDonβt lie to me,β Cleon hisses against Jessicaβs mouth. βI donβt want platitudes.β
Happiness is complicated β happiness is not for Empire β personal happiness isnβt part of the program, and isnβt that a brutal lesson that Dawn is currently having to learn β
βI will, however, accept fleeting satisfaction,β he says, and his hands run up the long lines of her thighs, sliding beneath those ephemeral skirts to find the warm soft skin of her hips, her ass.
"I would never lie to you." That is a lie, but there is also a truth within it. Unlike other concubines desperate to appease and win Empire's favor, Jessica isn't afraid to tell him the truth.
One hand, the one filled with his hair, is torn between gripping it tighter, pulling his head back to make him look at her, or continuing to caress and thread through it gently ( she noticed the loss of self-control as her fingers slid along the hair at the nape of his neck ) while the other gently cups his cheek, the pad of her thumb brushing over it while her fingers curl over the angular curve of his jaw.
Gently, with the hand cupping the side of his face, Jessica tilts his head, so he's looking at her as she pulls away to look down at him. "I will give you pleasure and satisfaction. Happiness. Everything. All you have to do is say the word."
The whole point of her coming here is to bring them back into the Bene Gesserit eugenics program, so they stop playing God, but she also sees the potential within him. The desire to be different, to break away from the mold, and with her, she can make everything he desires, everything he wants come to fruition.
She leans down to close the distance and kisses him hard enough that she hopes to leave bruises on his lips, so he remembers her, craves her, and asks for her again.
Rolling her hips against his, Jessica releases his cheek, hand slowly trailing down his chest, down his toned stomach, toying with the waistband of his pants before slipping beneath them, fingers wrapping around his length and coaxing as she gives one pull and then another.
The kiss is hard, teeth biting almost hard enough to draw blood, and afterwards heβll run his tongue over that bruise and think of her.
And Jessica doesnβt stop to ask for permission, to ask Empire how he would like her, to inquire what would best bring him pleasure — and it turns out that presumption is precisely what he likes about this one, as she simply reaches between them and wraps her hand around him. His head tilts back against the chaise, another low moan in his throat.
Amongst other things, the imperial secrets and intimacies and secrets shared, this is also why the Gossamer Court erases their concubinesβ memories: because here, in this room, heβs putty in their hands. No regular citizen can be allowed to remember this sensation: sitting over Empire, the very beating heart of Empire in the palm of their hand, playing his movements like an instrument. She gives a few practiced strokes and he hardens beneath her immediately, his fingers involuntarily digging into the skin of her hips.
Each visit to the Gossamer Court is rare enough, carefully-scheduled enough, that Cleon is still hungry for this touch. For the feel of someone elseβs hand around his cock instead of his own. He is tired of himself. He spends enough time with himself, together yet alone, always. He bucks up into her hand, her experienced touch, and then he finally forces his eyes open again: leans forward to kiss Jessica again, one hand rising to sweep the strap of her dress off one shoulder to expose a bare breast which he covers with a hand, his mouth drifting, his tongue and teeth at her throat.
With the power and burden of the Galactic Empire at his fingertips, while constantly being surrounded by himself, Jessica knows he must crave change and excitement. And that is what she provides him with β a sampling of what only she can offer and no one else. To sink her claws in and feed him honeyed words so he craves her enough to return repeatedly until he cannot be without her.
She is a prideful creature, and perhaps that will be her undoing one day, but imagine him coming back to her, and the sound of his moan delights her. A shiver of genuine pleasure lances through her, a strange but not unwelcome realization that she might also be enjoying this.
"Empire," she breathes, head tipping back, exposing the slender column of her neck for his mouth, teeth, and tongue to explore. Each breath trembles with excitement, and her pulse points thrum beneath his lips.
Eagerly, her body arches towards him, pushing her breast into his hand, almost desperate to feel more. Her hand strokes and teases the length of his cock; alternating between squeezing and a feather-light touch to study his reactions. Jessica's other hand slips from his hair and down his back. The movement is slow, and she is careful not to set off the shield, but she applies enough pressure that he might be able to feel her blunt nails scraping down his back.
The slow scrape of nails biting into his back, touching his skin, carefully-measured. Heβs had to explain the mechanics to concubines before, to tell them slower, slower, the very technology itself edging him out of necessity, but Jessica evidently already knows or implicitly understands how the Imperial shield works —
(which should perhaps be a red flag and an alarm in the back of his mind, but thereβs simply no room for any other more calculating thoughts when her hands are on him like this)
His teeth graze against her neck, nipping sharper with a bite before being replaced by laving longue, hot mouth, determined to leave his own mark on her in turn. This, too, is part of it: knowing the concubines will wander away tomorrow feeling the pleasant ache of muscles well-sated, finding the love bites on their neck, not knowing but understanding that passion happened. They wonβt remember, but he was here. This happened. The world remembers. Heβll leave an imprint.
βCleon,β he says suddenly, desperate and unplanned, voice ragged. βNot Empire. Call me Cleon.β
She can do this here, in this room, and only this room. Breaking down the barrier of his personal name, somehow even more intimate than Jessicaβs fingers running along his cock.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Jessicaβs lowered voice, that almost-purr, is seductive; revealing her hand, perhaps, but itβs precisely what he expects from a concubine anyhow.
Until. Then. Her fingertip runs down his wrist.
She was not invited to touch him, he did not tell her it was acceptable to approach yet, he should censure her for this, there should be a punishment,
but instead his breath hitches inwards, a small gasp held in his lungs, and her Bene Gesserit-trained instincts can see how his whole body runs taut and rigid. His arm turns instinctively, exposing more of his wrist to her. Thereβs still the hum of the Imperial aura beneath her touch, but sheβs evidently familiar with shield technology: the brush of her fingertip is slow enough to penetrate the invisible shield, until bare skin touches skin, until it feels like heβs been set on fire with that simple ghosting contact. His skin burning.
No one touches him. This is why the Gossamer Court exists. Like tapping a steam valve, venting that pent-up energy, that starvation.
βI have not,β Cleon says, answering her question, and itβs only a lifetime of training which still keeps his voice steady. His blue-green eyes (they match the Imperial colour) are fixed on her face now, and thereβs an indescribable shift in the air. A tip of the scales turning the temperature up a couple degrees. βHardly anyone is ever allowed to touch Empire, let alone cover him in material. It could be an absorbent toxin. It would be a dreadful security risk.β
His voice has sunk into an equally-teasing purr, matching hers.
no subject
Beneath the tips of her fingers, she feels the thrum of his body, the excitement coursing through his blood and veins despite the smooth and calm exterior he presents to her β years of schooling and training have gone into shaping him into the man before her. A man so great that she herself finds hard to resist.
"Mmmm, a pitty," she hums, allowing her fingers to continue trailing up the newly exposed part of his wrist that he turns to her. "It is fun and messy. Something one should experience at least once in their lifetime. What if Empire has the paint provided? Would he possibly consider it then?"
That small threat doesn't go unnoticed, the warning that no one is allowed to touch Empire, and yet he allows the long drag of her fingers against his skin to continue.
"Or Empire could paint me if he desires, though it leaves me wondering what he truly desires beyond the stuffy talk of literature and the arts. What would truly make Empire happy?"
no subject
But then Jessica turns the screws by asking that particular question. What would truly make Empire happy?
Itβs a jarring inquiry, because the answer is that he doesnβt know. He does not know. He has never known. Itβs the oldest and dullest story in existence, that the richest and most powerful man in the entire known universe is nonetheless deeply unhappy — but, well, thatβs why itβs old.
Thereβs a faint pause, and she can practically see the gears turning inside Cleonβs skull as he gives that question more weight than he strictly needs to. He could have waved it off with some pithy demand (You, on your knees). In the end, however, he includes instead: βHappiness is not part of the equation.β Then, βPleasure is.β
And his hand turns, captures her own forearm; drags her closer as he leans forward, closes the distance between them, and kisses her.
no subject
As she scrutinizes his features, Jessica takes notice of the features that others might ignore. The crease between his brow, the fine lines etched into his forehead, and lining his eyes. Handsome features, she notes to herself as she resists the urge to reach out and touch his face. To let the tips of her fingers glide over the light splattering of freckles across his cheeks.
There will be a time for that later, she reminds herself, perhaps with too much confidence in her skills for the mission she has been tasked with. There is no room for failure. While her sisters are skilled, many lack her prowess and determination. The desire to split away from the mold to do whatever is possible to make what she wants come to fruition β much like the man before her.
Happiness is not part of the question, he tells her. Pleasure is.
He grabs her, and she allows him to pull her into him, the distance lessening and lessening until their lips clash together.
The groaning moan that escapes her lips is honest β it isn't forced or an act. Hungrily, her lips move against his. Her lips part, letting her tongue slide against his lips to take in the taste of him. Noting the remnants of wine and no poisons or toxins or other chemicals that might be in place to bring her harm or alter her state of mind ( and since she's immune to most, if not all ), she would have to fake their effect.
Slowly and carefully shifting to keep their lips locked, Jessica rises to her knees, looming over him momentarily before straddling his lap with deliberate motions not to set off the Imperial Shield after she gathers up the thin fabric of mauve skirts high upon her thighs.
Gently she nips at his lip, letting her fingers trail up the back of his neck and into his hair, where she buries and tangles slim fingers in their softness before pulling away from his lips just enough that her words and breath ghost over them, "You are Empire," she murmurs, dragging her lips over his, "you can have both. Pleasure." slowly sinking her full weight onto his lap. "Happiness. Everything is yours."
no subject
Itβs a slow, deliberate movement as she settles over him. Enough that the shield doesnβt crackle beneath her or repel her across the room. He feels the slight resistance β the pressure in the air, the slight delay before her weight settles into his lap, her skirts slithering higher.
But here is where his self-control fractures: Cleon makes a helpless noise as her fingers curl against the back of his neck, digging into his well-moisturised hair. This is a man who has never known a tender unthinking touch, a mother smoothing his unruly dark hair back from his imperial forehead. Demerzel was the closest thing any of them ever had to a mother, the closest any of them would ever come to a wife, and she was not soft.
Everything is yours, the concubine says, like they all say, and β
βDonβt lie to me,β Cleon hisses against Jessicaβs mouth. βI donβt want platitudes.β
Happiness is complicated β happiness is not for Empire β personal happiness isnβt part of the program, and isnβt that a brutal lesson that Dawn is currently having to learn β
βI will, however, accept fleeting satisfaction,β he says, and his hands run up the long lines of her thighs, sliding beneath those ephemeral skirts to find the warm soft skin of her hips, her ass.
no subject
One hand, the one filled with his hair, is torn between gripping it tighter, pulling his head back to make him look at her, or continuing to caress and thread through it gently ( she noticed the loss of self-control as her fingers slid along the hair at the nape of his neck ) while the other gently cups his cheek, the pad of her thumb brushing over it while her fingers curl over the angular curve of his jaw.
Gently, with the hand cupping the side of his face, Jessica tilts his head, so he's looking at her as she pulls away to look down at him. "I will give you pleasure and satisfaction. Happiness. Everything. All you have to do is say the word."
The whole point of her coming here is to bring them back into the Bene Gesserit eugenics program, so they stop playing God, but she also sees the potential within him. The desire to be different, to break away from the mold, and with her, she can make everything he desires, everything he wants come to fruition.
She leans down to close the distance and kisses him hard enough that she hopes to leave bruises on his lips, so he remembers her, craves her, and asks for her again.
Rolling her hips against his, Jessica releases his cheek, hand slowly trailing down his chest, down his toned stomach, toying with the waistband of his pants before slipping beneath them, fingers wrapping around his length and coaxing as she gives one pull and then another.
no subject
And Jessica doesnβt stop to ask for permission, to ask Empire how he would like her, to inquire what would best bring him pleasure — and it turns out that presumption is precisely what he likes about this one, as she simply reaches between them and wraps her hand around him. His head tilts back against the chaise, another low moan in his throat.
Amongst other things, the imperial secrets and intimacies and secrets shared, this is also why the Gossamer Court erases their concubinesβ memories: because here, in this room, heβs putty in their hands. No regular citizen can be allowed to remember this sensation: sitting over Empire, the very beating heart of Empire in the palm of their hand, playing his movements like an instrument. She gives a few practiced strokes and he hardens beneath her immediately, his fingers involuntarily digging into the skin of her hips.
Each visit to the Gossamer Court is rare enough, carefully-scheduled enough, that Cleon is still hungry for this touch. For the feel of someone elseβs hand around his cock instead of his own. He is tired of himself. He spends enough time with himself, together yet alone, always. He bucks up into her hand, her experienced touch, and then he finally forces his eyes open again: leans forward to kiss Jessica again, one hand rising to sweep the strap of her dress off one shoulder to expose a bare breast which he covers with a hand, his mouth drifting, his tongue and teeth at her throat.
no subject
With the power and burden of the Galactic Empire at his fingertips, while constantly being surrounded by himself, Jessica knows he must crave change and excitement. And that is what she provides him with β a sampling of what only she can offer and no one else. To sink her claws in and feed him honeyed words so he craves her enough to return repeatedly until he cannot be without her.
She is a prideful creature, and perhaps that will be her undoing one day, but imagine him coming back to her, and the sound of his moan delights her. A shiver of genuine pleasure lances through her, a strange but not unwelcome realization that she might also be enjoying this.
"Empire," she breathes, head tipping back, exposing the slender column of her neck for his mouth, teeth, and tongue to explore. Each breath trembles with excitement, and her pulse points thrum beneath his lips.
Eagerly, her body arches towards him, pushing her breast into his hand, almost desperate to feel more. Her hand strokes and teases the length of his cock; alternating between squeezing and a feather-light touch to study his reactions. Jessica's other hand slips from his hair and down his back. The movement is slow, and she is careful not to set off the shield, but she applies enough pressure that he might be able to feel her blunt nails scraping down his back.
no subject
(which should perhaps be a red flag and an alarm in the back of his mind, but thereβs simply no room for any other more calculating thoughts when her hands are on him like this)
His teeth graze against her neck, nipping sharper with a bite before being replaced by laving longue, hot mouth, determined to leave his own mark on her in turn. This, too, is part of it: knowing the concubines will wander away tomorrow feeling the pleasant ache of muscles well-sated, finding the love bites on their neck, not knowing but understanding that passion happened. They wonβt remember, but he was here. This happened. The world remembers. Heβll leave an imprint.
βCleon,β he says suddenly, desperate and unplanned, voice ragged. βNot Empire. Call me Cleon.β
She can do this here, in this room, and only this room. Breaking down the barrier of his personal name, somehow even more intimate than Jessicaβs fingers running along his cock.