It's that listlessness which hits him sometimes, a kind of existential ennui with the grandiose pageantry; he occasionally loses his taste for the fine foods and aged wines and attractive bedmates and that unchanging ebb-and-flow of Trantor. This afternoon is supposed to be spent with a concubine from Gossamer Court, but as always, it's a passionless appointment slotted into his calendar alongside the diplomatic meetings, Dawn's tutoring sessions, and the planning sessions with his ministers. Organised. Rote. Indistinguishable from yet another duty. A physiological need for intimacy. Like a biological itch to be scratched, and nothing more.
Brother Day makes so many decisions throughout the course of the day that he's been struck by decision paralysis lately, in the matter of choosing the concubines. He's sometimes forayed into arbitrary requirements without even looking at the offerings at hand: Bring me the woman with the latest birthday in the year. Bring me the man who's been offworld most often.
After enough toying around with that method, in the end, he'd simply told Demerzel to choose for him. She's had four hundred years of experience with the emperor's tastes and preferences. At this point, she probably knows himself better than he does; she can probably look at a lineup of companions and know exactly which one the ur-Cleon, the most himself, would have liked. So he lets her choose.
Which is how a certain brunette winds up in his private bedchambers; the room is suffused with golden-hour light and flowing curtains while the embodiment of Empire lounges on a chaise, shirtless and bored, chin propped in his hand as he watches her enter. His gaze wanders up and down the woman from head to toe, and he arches an eyebrow.
A little older than his usual tastes, but he doesn't mind. (He has no taste for anything today.)
"I believe you're new to me," Cleon says. Not that a concubine would even remember — but at least it's someone new to him and thus not the very same bodies he's sampled before, like a tired vintage.
Above all your sisters, you have been chosen to bring the Empire to heel, the harbinger that returns things to order. Yet you stand here before me, bitter and resentful because you deem yourself better than the path laid out before you. Pride will be your downfall, Jessica, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam had said to Jessica as they stood in the Bene Gesserit chapterhouse on Wallach IX.
Hearing the truth from the Reverend Mother's lips both humbled Jessica and caused that bitterness to rise β what strange emotions to war within the Bene Gesserit sister. The truth was always a bitter pill to swallow. Jessica understood her place and what she had trained for, but Jessica wanted more than to be a concubine to contribute to the breeding program as she felt her skills surpassed the sisters that were often those for this role. Having trained Jessica in the ways of the sisterhood, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam understood her pupil best of all, possibly even knowing Jessica better than she knew herself.
Despite her prideful nature, her potential for greatness and her genetic heritage was impossible to ignore as she was a pivotal piece to the Bene Gesserit breeding program β she was the illegitimate daughter of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen and an unknown mother (though upon a deep investigation of the Bene Gesserit birth charts they would note that her mother was Tanidia Nerus, better known to the rest of the Universe as Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, the very woman who has trained her for all these years).
By the time Jessica boards the transport from Wallach IX to Trantor, bitterness has subsided, and she begins preparing herself for life at the Gossamer Court β where she will bide her time until she is chosen for her services to bring pleasure in whatever ways possible to Empire. Upon arrival, Jessica is subjected to the same orientation training as the other concubines. They come to understand their sole purpose is to bring pleasure to Empire, and upon leaving Trantor, their minds will be wiped clean.
Jessica expected to linger for an unknown amount of time, mingling with the other concubines before she is chosen. It seems that she has found herself in the right place at the right time as the embodiment of propriety glides through the gates β back straight, hands clasped at her waist, elbows bent, and critical blue eyes that scrutinize every prospect until they settle upon Jessica.
"You," Demerzel says as she motions with her head towards Jessica, "come with me; Empire requires your services."
With a gentle nod of her head, Jessica stands, the cascade of dusky mauve fabric flowing behind her as she follows behind Empire's advisor with her own hands clasped together and head canted in a servile manner. She is guided by Demerzel through the halls and to Empire's (Brother Day in this instance) private chambers, where she is left alone in the doorway. Straightening her shoulders and raising her head, Jessica breathes in deeply before entering to stand before Empire β she wears the same dusky mauve as the other female concubines, her brunette hair in loose waves that trail over one shoulder and down her back, shimmering almost bronze in the golden rays that filter through the curtains.
She can feel his eyes traveling over her form as she scrutinizes her, and she dares to look at him, taking in all that is Empire before bowing once he speaks.
"Does Empire seek different amusement?" Jessica asks as she steps further into the room without removing her eyes from him, her head curiously tilted to the side.
Perfect posture, perfect decorum, perfectly polite voice, all perfectly trained into her. (He has no idea how very trained.) The names and faces and bodies may vary, but over time β particularly over the course of his extended lifetime, the nanobots keeping him healthy and aging slower than normal β there is an inevitable sameness to all these people bending themselves to Empire, all these flowers leaning towards their sun, eager to please.
But she looked back at him, and didn't demurely stare downward as so many of them do. That's an interesting detail.
"No," Cleon says. As if he can even decide which amusements he'd like, at this point. With (almost) every possible diversion sitting at his fingertips, the choice becomes impossible. Entertainment holos? Hunting? Playing the piano? Painting miniatures? Perfecting his cooking? What choice, when it all feels stale?
At a certain point, there's a limit to how much you can entertain oneself without leaving the boundaries of the palace.
"Amusement," he repeats after a moment, thoughtful. He lapses into these philosophical tangents sometimes. "I presume you're trained in all matter of amusement: oratory, song, instrument, dance. Pleasure."
He likes a challenge, she thinks to herself as she continues deeper into the room, not stopping before the chaise but circling it as a predator would prey as she examines him from all angles. It must be boring, confined within these walls with only yourself for continual entertainment where concubines come and go with the wind. Lonely even.
"Pleasure, above all else," she says from behind him. Her voice is gentle, feminine, pleasing to the ear, and arousing to the base instincts within every man (and even some women). "Which pleasures do you prefer, Empire? I am conversant in many subjects, some of which most companions lack training in."
Not that she would ever let him know, but Jessica knows of their origin, of the long-forgotten world of Earth in the Sol system that is nothing more than a myth to the people of the Empire. She knows of Earth's histories, the art, and songs that belonged to the planet, doomed to be forgotten if it weren't preserved by her long line of sisters. If her memory serves her right, they even have a preserved oil painting from Vincent Van Gogh, Thatched Cottages at Cordeville, 1890.
"I have been told my hands and body bring as much pleasure as I do with the subjects I am versed in." Jessica finally stops circling him; now, a mere few feet separate them. The freckles littering her skin and the striking blue of her eyes that peer through thick lashes now visible.
As the woman paces behind him into his blind spot, Cleon purposefully doesn't twist his head to follow her movement, and as a result he feels the back of his neck prickle with forewarning. A good position to attempt an assassination from, he thinks, with the kind of automatic threat assessment his shadowmasters have drummed into him over decades. But the weight of the gold band still sits safely on his right wrist, the imperial aura repelling any potential attack. (Honestly, at least an attack would liven things up a bit.)
There's something to the cant of her voice: where his is deep, commanding, often a lazy drawl, with the entitled tones of someone who expects to be obeyed— hers needles its way down his spine in a way he can't put his finger on. It strikes a spark somewhere, in that low-simmering heat which he thought was safely set aside today.
"Conversant in many subjects — so, more than just a meekly excellent listener, a willing receptacle for all my woes?" There's a tart edge to Cleon's voice, too: that boredom giving it a sharper edge. She's circled back into view and now he's starting to pay proper attention, his gaze drinking her in. He's not interested in her hands, just yet. Everyone has hands. "Give me a sampling of those subjects." A beat, before he adds dryly, "And your name."
Empire doesn't always need the names — they don't call him by his, and sometimes they come and go without even being introduced, perfunctory liaisons — but this time he's curious.
Inwardly, Jessica grins to herself in a triumphant, boastful way as she wonders just how many concubines could have gotten away with what she had just done. Many would have considered her boldness a threat upon Empire, punishable by death or worse. It could have been easy to kill him if she wanted, as every sister has many weapons at their disposal β the Gom Jabbar being one of them, tipped with meta-cyanide poison, an instantaneous death capable of killing him before his nanobots have a chance to neutralize the toxin and slow enough to penetrate the imperial aura he believes keeps him safe. This weapon is subtle enough to pass through most security and body checks; she even has it with her now.
It would be easy to end him, but she knows another clone is waiting to take his place. Her purpose is to bring an end to the genetic dynasty by producing a biological heir, not by killing them or allowing another cloned replica of Cleon I sitting on the triple-throned dais.
"If Empire would prefer someone demure to listen to your woes and stroke every facet of your ego, I can be that woman, but I feel what Empire desires β more," there is a teasing quality to her voice as she allows herself an almost mischievous grin.
"Jessica, but Empire may call me whatever he pleases, and I might answer." She steps forward, gesturing with a hand towards the unoccupied end of the chaise. "May I sit, or would Empire prefer me to stand?"
She wonders what subjects would interest him most as she finds anything on Earth the most interesting, but that would give away too much. Jessica douts he wishes to hear about the various poisons she knows how to use and that not all doses are lethal β some even have pleasurable effects. Jessica is knowledgeable in many things, which would intimidate most men.
"I would prefer if Empire picks the subject, as it is easy to talk about what I know, and you may pick something I know little or nothing about."
Edited (why do i have to edit everything /screams (...again)) 2021-12-12 18:19 (UTC)
"Sit, then, Jessica," Cleon says, patting the chaise next to him with an almost patronising air. That built-in arrogance is like a default setting that he can't turn off, fostered and bred into every inch of him. So he doesn't like the crick in his neck from having to tilt his head back to look up at her; he is, frankly, unaccustomed to it. His dais normally sits elevated above any of his postulants or visitors or dignitaries, the arrivals going to their knees in front of him.
But these private quarters are something different. And, of course, the choice brings her closer and sets her down beside him. Demure. He's supposed to like them demure and fawning, but he's caught in a different whim today — so Demerzel has chosen wisely, although he can't quite tell if it was on purpose or accident.
He shifts on the chaise, angling his body so he's facing her directly: a view of toned golden skin, meticulously taken care of and muscled, despite his lazy life at the palace. Dressed only in comfortable blue lounge pants, the Imperial colour. Stripped-down and casual in a way that no one else outside of this room, and outside of his family, ever gets to see.
"Talk to me about books. Are you a reader?" Many of them aren't; they don't use their minds much.
It can't be helped, Jessica thinks as she watches him pat the space next to him, the pretentiousness radiating from him almost suffocating, this behavior bred into him, a trait of the original; Cleon I. For a moment she remains standing before him, lingering as she allows her mind to wander, though just briefly β she wonders if having a proper a maternal figure could have nurtured that patronizing arrogance out of him, making him different than his predecessors, and as a result could it also be bred out of their child?
You're getting ahead of yourself, Jessica, she scolds herself with a voice that reminds her of the Reverend Mother.
Closing the distance that remained between them, Jessica lowers herself onto the chaise next to him, close enough he can feel the heat from whatever part of her body is closest to him, but still respectable for his boundaries as Empire and the imperial aura that he wears.
"I am an avid reader, Empire." A genuine smile spreads across her freckled features as she smooths out the sheer fabric of her dress over her legs. "Recently, there was an essay published by Streeling University about the effect aesthetics has on the soul. Do you enjoy art, Empire?"
Edited (when you think you fix a typo and don't) 2021-12-21 02:06 (UTC)
"Not as much as I should. That's mostly Brother Dusk's domain, I'm afraid."
The sand mural, the meticulously-tinted chroma held suspended in air, shifting slightly but never falling. Something impermanent held in permanent stasis. You didn't even have to look too far to find the metaphor there, and he knew his predecessor had a particular passion for messages delivered through art — as a child, he'd heard of the fate of Master Orlio, which had been recited to him as an object lesson, tutorship in murder — but he did, in fact, admire the murals. (Even as, looking at them, Day felt that faint pinprick thread of something which might or might not be anxiety. He didn't recognise the feeling. But there was the literal physical embodiment of his Cleonic legacy, sprawling down and down and down that long hallway, towering above him, daunting.)
"I find the Imperial artists on Trantor are particularly practiced at sculpture and portraiture."
Fuck's sake, he sounds like a tourism brochure. Cleon leans backwards, arms hooked lazily over the back of the chaise, and he reconsiders. Cuts some of that affected distance from his voice, and he sounds just a heartbeat more grounded as he asks:
"So. What is the effect of aesthetics on the soul?"
"A pity, I would hate to stoke the fire of a new interest that might lead you to step on Brother Dusk's toes," her tone is teasing and playful, clearly finding amusement in simply talking with him.
The overabundance of formality isn't lost on Jessica β the clean lines of her eyebrows shoot up in amusement as she pulls her lips between her teeth, fighting the urge to laugh how automated his response was. Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, she releases her lips from between her teeth to let out a breath.
Hearing the chance in his voice, Jessica rests her back against the chaise while leaning towards him, conveying her interest in him and that he has her complete attention. Her fingers idly slide over the fabric, dangerously close to touching him but never attempting to make contact.
"It varies, from soul to soul. In the study, I believe five different art pieces were used; the test subjects were asked what emotions each piece invoked within them. Each answer they received from the test subjects was different β some shared a similar theme of feeling a calming serenity from the forest scene. In contrast, others felt a sense of terror from the unknown or crippling loneliness from being isolated and alone in the forest. I would love to see these pieces for myself one day, to experience how my soul perceives them compared to the test subjects or those around me."
"Interesting," Cleon XIII says slowly, and it isn't an empty filler word: he does genuinely find this interesting. The gears are already turning in the back of his head, considering the possibilities of what seems like such a simple little experiment on the surface. He's leaned forward a little, already shifting out of his lazy sprawl, his attention piqued. "Do you know if these pieces still exist? Are there any digital replicas?" Quick, capricious, he adds, "No, even if there aren't full copies, I could have someone recreate them. Re-paint the pieces. I can have some brought to the palace and you and I can both gaze upon them, and declare how we perceive them."
On a mere whim, of course he could demand someone execute such a massive undertaking as new paintings and have them carted here for his enjoyment. This man who owns everything, who can command anything. But for once, a concubine thought of something he hadn't, and he finds that— thrilling, almost.
The topic was immensely well-chosen on Jessica's part, like a weapon selected off the shelf, honed to a sharp edge against the Emperor. He still doesn't know if he has a soul. He wonders what Dawn, Day, and Dusk would say if you lined up five different pieces of art in front of them. Their answers should, ideally, be identical even despite their age.
Seeing and feeling the growing interest within him is thrilling and exciting β it has her heart rate elevate, her cheeks flush in a way that accentuates the dusting of freckles across her porcelain skin. Her pupils dilate in those ways that dominant parties find attractive in submissive partners as she glances at him through thick lashes.
To have him interested and leaning toward her with such a simple topic leaves her wondering what everyone before her has been like. It may require a bit more investigation, but she imagines they were mostly for more carnal pleasures and nothing intellectual, so to have his mind teased and an interesting topic broached was βrare.
Do you know if these pieces still exist? Are there any digital replicas?
Her mind wanders back home to Wallach IX and the Bene Gesserit chapterhouse. There they have a preserved oil painting from Vincent Van Gogh, Thatched Cottages at Cordeville, 1890, from Earth of old. Part of her would love to show it to him β give him a taste of what they once had and lost, but it is far too early for such thinking.
"If having someone come to the palace to recreate the paintings, I do know of someone, a collector, who might have some, but he is off-world, and I fear he never leaves." Much like someone else, she wishes to add but remains silent with her quip.
"I would love to watch someone recreate pieces or create something new β for us," her voice lower, intimate as her fingers slide forward those last few inches, slow enough to bypass the shielding and the soft pads of her fingers touch the side of his arm.
"Have you ever been painted, Empire?" Jessica presses the entire width of her fingertip against his arm, trailing it down the delicate underside of his wrist. "With your body as the canvas as the brush glides cool paint across your skin?"
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}
the first meeting.
It's that listlessness which hits him sometimes, a kind of existential ennui with the grandiose pageantry; he occasionally loses his taste for the fine foods and aged wines and attractive bedmates and that unchanging ebb-and-flow of Trantor. This afternoon is supposed to be spent with a concubine from Gossamer Court, but as always, it's a passionless appointment slotted into his calendar alongside the diplomatic meetings, Dawn's tutoring sessions, and the planning sessions with his ministers. Organised. Rote. Indistinguishable from yet another duty. A physiological need for intimacy. Like a biological itch to be scratched, and nothing more.
Brother Day makes so many decisions throughout the course of the day that he's been struck by decision paralysis lately, in the matter of choosing the concubines. He's sometimes forayed into arbitrary requirements without even looking at the offerings at hand: Bring me the woman with the latest birthday in the year. Bring me the man who's been offworld most often.
After enough toying around with that method, in the end, he'd simply told Demerzel to choose for him. She's had four hundred years of experience with the emperor's tastes and preferences. At this point, she probably knows himself better than he does; she can probably look at a lineup of companions and know exactly which one the ur-Cleon, the most himself, would have liked. So he lets her choose.
Which is how a certain brunette winds up in his private bedchambers; the room is suffused with golden-hour light and flowing curtains while the embodiment of Empire lounges on a chaise, shirtless and bored, chin propped in his hand as he watches her enter. His gaze wanders up and down the woman from head to toe, and he arches an eyebrow.
A little older than his usual tastes, but he doesn't mind. (He has no taste for anything today.)
"I believe you're new to me," Cleon says. Not that a concubine would even remember — but at least it's someone new to him and thus not the very same bodies he's sampled before, like a tired vintage.
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Hearing the truth from the Reverend Mother's lips both humbled Jessica and caused that bitterness to rise β what strange emotions to war within the Bene Gesserit sister. The truth was always a bitter pill to swallow. Jessica understood her place and what she had trained for, but Jessica wanted more than to be a concubine to contribute to the breeding program as she felt her skills surpassed the sisters that were often those for this role. Having trained Jessica in the ways of the sisterhood, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam understood her pupil best of all, possibly even knowing Jessica better than she knew herself.
Despite her prideful nature, her potential for greatness and her genetic heritage was impossible to ignore as she was a pivotal piece to the Bene Gesserit breeding program β she was the illegitimate daughter of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen and an unknown mother (though upon a deep investigation of the Bene Gesserit birth charts they would note that her mother was Tanidia Nerus, better known to the rest of the Universe as Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, the very woman who has trained her for all these years).
By the time Jessica boards the transport from Wallach IX to Trantor, bitterness has subsided, and she begins preparing herself for life at the Gossamer Court β where she will bide her time until she is chosen for her services to bring pleasure in whatever ways possible to Empire. Upon arrival, Jessica is subjected to the same orientation training as the other concubines. They come to understand their sole purpose is to bring pleasure to Empire, and upon leaving Trantor, their minds will be wiped clean.
Jessica expected to linger for an unknown amount of time, mingling with the other concubines before she is chosen. It seems that she has found herself in the right place at the right time as the embodiment of propriety glides through the gates β back straight, hands clasped at her waist, elbows bent, and critical blue eyes that scrutinize every prospect until they settle upon Jessica.
"You," Demerzel says as she motions with her head towards Jessica, "come with me; Empire requires your services."
With a gentle nod of her head, Jessica stands, the cascade of dusky mauve fabric flowing behind her as she follows behind Empire's advisor with her own hands clasped together and head canted in a servile manner. She is guided by Demerzel through the halls and to Empire's (Brother Day in this instance) private chambers, where she is left alone in the doorway. Straightening her shoulders and raising her head, Jessica breathes in deeply before entering to stand before Empire β she wears the same dusky mauve as the other female concubines, her brunette hair in loose waves that trail over one shoulder and down her back, shimmering almost bronze in the golden rays that filter through the curtains.
She can feel his eyes traveling over her form as she scrutinizes her, and she dares to look at him, taking in all that is Empire before bowing once he speaks.
"Does Empire seek different amusement?" Jessica asks as she steps further into the room without removing her eyes from him, her head curiously tilted to the side.
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But she looked back at him, and didn't demurely stare downward as so many of them do. That's an interesting detail.
"No," Cleon says. As if he can even decide which amusements he'd like, at this point. With (almost) every possible diversion sitting at his fingertips, the choice becomes impossible. Entertainment holos? Hunting? Playing the piano? Painting miniatures? Perfecting his cooking? What choice, when it all feels stale?
At a certain point, there's a limit to how much you can entertain oneself without leaving the boundaries of the palace.
"Amusement," he repeats after a moment, thoughtful. He lapses into these philosophical tangents sometimes. "I presume you're trained in all matter of amusement: oratory, song, instrument, dance. Pleasure."
They all are.
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"Pleasure, above all else," she says from behind him. Her voice is gentle, feminine, pleasing to the ear, and arousing to the base instincts within every man (and even some women). "Which pleasures do you prefer, Empire? I am conversant in many subjects, some of which most companions lack training in."
Not that she would ever let him know, but Jessica knows of their origin, of the long-forgotten world of Earth in the Sol system that is nothing more than a myth to the people of the Empire. She knows of Earth's histories, the art, and songs that belonged to the planet, doomed to be forgotten if it weren't preserved by her long line of sisters. If her memory serves her right, they even have a preserved oil painting from Vincent Van Gogh, Thatched Cottages at Cordeville, 1890.
"I have been told my hands and body bring as much pleasure as I do with the subjects I am versed in." Jessica finally stops circling him; now, a mere few feet separate them. The freckles littering her skin and the striking blue of her eyes that peer through thick lashes now visible.
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There's something to the cant of her voice: where his is deep, commanding, often a lazy drawl, with the entitled tones of someone who expects to be obeyed— hers needles its way down his spine in a way he can't put his finger on. It strikes a spark somewhere, in that low-simmering heat which he thought was safely set aside today.
"Conversant in many subjects — so, more than just a meekly excellent listener, a willing receptacle for all my woes?" There's a tart edge to Cleon's voice, too: that boredom giving it a sharper edge. She's circled back into view and now he's starting to pay proper attention, his gaze drinking her in. He's not interested in her hands, just yet. Everyone has hands. "Give me a sampling of those subjects." A beat, before he adds dryly, "And your name."
Empire doesn't always need the names — they don't call him by his, and sometimes they come and go without even being introduced, perfunctory liaisons — but this time he's curious.
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It would be easy to end him, but she knows another clone is waiting to take his place. Her purpose is to bring an end to the genetic dynasty by producing a biological heir, not by killing them or allowing another cloned replica of Cleon I sitting on the triple-throned dais.
"If Empire would prefer someone demure to listen to your woes and stroke every facet of your ego, I can be that woman, but I feel what Empire desires β more," there is a teasing quality to her voice as she allows herself an almost mischievous grin.
"Jessica, but Empire may call me whatever he pleases, and I might answer." She steps forward, gesturing with a hand towards the unoccupied end of the chaise. "May I sit, or would Empire prefer me to stand?"
She wonders what subjects would interest him most as she finds anything on Earth the most interesting, but that would give away too much. Jessica douts he wishes to hear about the various poisons she knows how to use and that not all doses are lethal β some even have pleasurable effects. Jessica is knowledgeable in many things, which would intimidate most men.
"I would prefer if Empire picks the subject, as it is easy to talk about what I know, and you may pick something I know little or nothing about."
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But these private quarters are something different. And, of course, the choice brings her closer and sets her down beside him. Demure. He's supposed to like them demure and fawning, but he's caught in a different whim today — so Demerzel has chosen wisely, although he can't quite tell if it was on purpose or accident.
He shifts on the chaise, angling his body so he's facing her directly: a view of toned golden skin, meticulously taken care of and muscled, despite his lazy life at the palace. Dressed only in comfortable blue lounge pants, the Imperial colour. Stripped-down and casual in a way that no one else outside of this room, and outside of his family, ever gets to see.
"Talk to me about books. Are you a reader?" Many of them aren't; they don't use their minds much.
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You're getting ahead of yourself, Jessica, she scolds herself with a voice that reminds her of the Reverend Mother.
Closing the distance that remained between them, Jessica lowers herself onto the chaise next to him, close enough he can feel the heat from whatever part of her body is closest to him, but still respectable for his boundaries as Empire and the imperial aura that he wears.
"I am an avid reader, Empire." A genuine smile spreads across her freckled features as she smooths out the sheer fabric of her dress over her legs. "Recently, there was an essay published by Streeling University about the effect aesthetics has on the soul. Do you enjoy art, Empire?"
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The sand mural, the meticulously-tinted chroma held suspended in air, shifting slightly but never falling. Something impermanent held in permanent stasis. You didn't even have to look too far to find the metaphor there, and he knew his predecessor had a particular passion for messages delivered through art — as a child, he'd heard of the fate of Master Orlio, which had been recited to him as an object lesson, tutorship in murder — but he did, in fact, admire the murals. (Even as, looking at them, Day felt that faint pinprick thread of something which might or might not be anxiety. He didn't recognise the feeling. But there was the literal physical embodiment of his Cleonic legacy, sprawling down and down and down that long hallway, towering above him, daunting.)
"I find the Imperial artists on Trantor are particularly practiced at sculpture and portraiture."
Fuck's sake, he sounds like a tourism brochure. Cleon leans backwards, arms hooked lazily over the back of the chaise, and he reconsiders. Cuts some of that affected distance from his voice, and he sounds just a heartbeat more grounded as he asks:
"So. What is the effect of aesthetics on the soul?"
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The overabundance of formality isn't lost on Jessica β the clean lines of her eyebrows shoot up in amusement as she pulls her lips between her teeth, fighting the urge to laugh how automated his response was. Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, she releases her lips from between her teeth to let out a breath.
Hearing the chance in his voice, Jessica rests her back against the chaise while leaning towards him, conveying her interest in him and that he has her complete attention. Her fingers idly slide over the fabric, dangerously close to touching him but never attempting to make contact.
"It varies, from soul to soul. In the study, I believe five different art pieces were used; the test subjects were asked what emotions each piece invoked within them. Each answer they received from the test subjects was different β some shared a similar theme of feeling a calming serenity from the forest scene. In contrast, others felt a sense of terror from the unknown or crippling loneliness from being isolated and alone in the forest. I would love to see these pieces for myself one day, to experience how my soul perceives them compared to the test subjects or those around me."
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On a mere whim, of course he could demand someone execute such a massive undertaking as new paintings and have them carted here for his enjoyment. This man who owns everything, who can command anything. But for once, a concubine thought of something he hadn't, and he finds that— thrilling, almost.
The topic was immensely well-chosen on Jessica's part, like a weapon selected off the shelf, honed to a sharp edge against the Emperor. He still doesn't know if he has a soul. He wonders what Dawn, Day, and Dusk would say if you lined up five different pieces of art in front of them. Their answers should, ideally, be identical even despite their age.
(But part of him fears that they wouldn't.)
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To have him interested and leaning toward her with such a simple topic leaves her wondering what everyone before her has been like. It may require a bit more investigation, but she imagines they were mostly for more carnal pleasures and nothing intellectual, so to have his mind teased and an interesting topic broached was βrare.
Do you know if these pieces still exist? Are there any digital replicas?
Her mind wanders back home to Wallach IX and the Bene Gesserit chapterhouse. There they have a preserved oil painting from Vincent Van Gogh, Thatched Cottages at Cordeville, 1890, from Earth of old. Part of her would love to show it to him β give him a taste of what they once had and lost, but it is far too early for such thinking.
"If having someone come to the palace to recreate the paintings, I do know of someone, a collector, who might have some, but he is off-world, and I fear he never leaves." Much like someone else, she wishes to add but remains silent with her quip.
"I would love to watch someone recreate pieces or create something new β for us," her voice lower, intimate as her fingers slide forward those last few inches, slow enough to bypass the shielding and the soft pads of her fingers touch the side of his arm.
"Have you ever been painted, Empire?" Jessica presses the entire width of her fingertip against his arm, trailing it down the delicate underside of his wrist. "With your body as the canvas as the brush glides cool paint across your skin?"
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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.
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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?"
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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(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.