[modern au - fic: l'art pour l'art]

[population_ctrl]

Title: L'art pour l'art Setting: Modern AU. She tells him they're done, but sometimes, words are empty. Rating: NC-17, Jean Louis/Mireille, minors go away. L'art pour l'art This is the last time, she said, about half an hour ago. And he didn’t believe her anymore at that point than he does now, listening to her as she breathes her orgasm out of her body, her slim legs entangled with his on her bed. The duvet is on the floor somewhere, along with their clothes. His jacket, his trousers, mixed up with her light summertime dress and the soft shades falling through her windows. Paris in the afternoon – everything has slowed to a halt, hasn’t it? And she isn’t talking now, isn’t busy telling him that they’re done. That it’s necessary. The sound of cars passing by on the busy streets of the third arrondissement is keeping his mind alert. Awake. Not for too long at this point – his eyelids are getting gradually heavier. But his eyes are busy right now; his gaze, glued to the naked skin of her shoulders, back, buttocks, thighs. He pauses. She’s probably not asleep, yet. Good. Reaching out a hand, he rests his palm flatly on the small of her back, feeling the curve of her buttocks beneath his fingers. She shifts against him, almost languidly, increasing their body contact. Just so. Done, are they? Not by far. He watches as he slides his hand downwards, slowly, the path of his fingers leaving invisible traces of touch against her paler skin. China doll fragility, he’d say, but then he wouldn’t really know her at all. And he thinks he does. He’s rather invested by now, and when he is, he’s never ignorant. Can’t afford that, with how fast everything usually changes around him. No, he thinks, and slips his hand further down, between her thighs. This is definitely a misunderstanding on her part. Not a mistake; he won’t let her make one. But a failure to see, certainly. A blindness. Call it an analytic oversight, perhaps. With Mireille, it makes for delicious irony and, well, why not? She moves against him, turning on her side slowly, the sheets rustling underneath her. He leans in closer, pushing his hand upwards, against her sex. Closing the distance between their bodies, pressing his front against her back and ending up with her hair shrouding his vision. For one, almost overwhelming second, everything is her; the smell of her, the feel of her, his own body responding in kind as he lets himself indulge. In her. Oh, this is not the end. It’s not even close. He’s long since decided that he gets what he wants, when he wants it. It’s how the world works and he isn’t about to let that change, just because of Barrault’s misguided affections. Some selfish need to play the parental role he’s been neglecting most of her life, right now when it makes no sense and holds no purpose. As she rolls over fully next to him onto her back, he doesn’t wait for her to ask. Repeat herself. Or comment. She has a dry wit, Mireille, and a beautiful intellect but right now, all she can say will negate the truth, as he knows it: that he’ll make this happen, he’ll have it – and her – the way he prefers. He smiles. Slips his fingers into her, the slickness of her sex making the movement smooth and easy. She inhales deeply beside him in response, her skin reddening and her eyelids fluttering briefly, rays of movement contrasting against the stillness of her face. She holds onto her expressions, holds onto herself, like she’s dimly aware that everything she hands out for free is priceless. It’s pride, of course, not conceitedness. He thinks the difference is important. As he fucks her slowly, his fingers coated in her wetness and her breasts rising and falling with gradual urgency, he waits for his body to reach the right level of arousal. Perhaps, when he’s had his way and they’re back on the path he’s chosen for them, she’ll understand. That while words can be powerful – can embody traces upon traces of history or, indeed, make people hand you their daily lives on a silver platter – they can also be just that. Words. Like any weapon, you have to knowingly yield it to use it efficiently. You have to know its potential. Mireille may be dusting their language off, like poetic archaeology, trying to dig out whatever it’s hiding. Past history, put on parade for the sake of reflection. It’s fine, of course. Difficult and admirable. But Jean Louis would rather find a use for words; put them on display for a reason, to watch as they change the world. And that’s why he’ll win, this time, and why she won’t even realise that by submitting to him now, again, he’s making a liar out of her. A pretty liar, though. Jean Louis won’t judge her. After all, more often than not morality is just a cover for cowardice and he doesn’t mind pushing her beyond that slight limitation. He’s generous like that. ~