An Asymptotic Curve

Warning: Adult situation - this log contains R-rated matierial


Xanadu Weyr - Steward's Office

The office of the Steward is a place for things to pass through. On the side of the wooden desk nearest the door are a pair of boxes labeled In and Out. The center of the desk provides a place to process those papers, with a set of draftsman's tools - pens, pencils, rulers and compasses - tucked in a small wooden box. The computer, as it receives fewer messages, is set off to the side of the desk.

One thing that stays in the office is the Steward himself - at least, so long as he holds that office - and so there's a comfortable chair behind that desk, as well as a pair of plain wooden ones in front of it for those passing through.

Bookshelves line the walls, crammed with tomes ranging in topic from weather patterns of the southern continent to crop output for the last one hundred turns. They are some the many things of which a Steward must have a passing knowledge - one sufficient to let him delegate the rest. To record the events so delegated, there are a pair of file cabinets full of paperwork not yet so historical as to merit relocation to the archives.

The office of the headwoman. A place of neatly-shelved books and filed records. A place of serene organization and quiet orderly delegation of tasks both large and small. Wait. Right office, wrong setting. This is indeed where the headwoman is. The office, however, is anything but orderly. And why's Darsce here when she normally would be off duty with the evening meal? Damned if she knows. Encased in stone, she's fairly shielded from the goings on in both outer caverns and outer weyr. Footsteps hastening by her office door awhile ago - going somewhere in a hurry drew a mutter, but deep in the middle of reading some of Ocelara's notes, she'd paid the noise little mind. Things after that grew quieter and as time passed her concentration plummeted, her focus lost totally as the sun touched the horizon. She needs to cross-reference… and where are…? Oh! The file about health problems caused by fungal and mildews. Oh and there's Xe'ter's MSDS file. She ughs and pulls that out - and he made sure this office got every chemical used in Xanadu proper - it's… huge. Sigh. Back to her desk, thumbing through it and… a pencil… notepaper! She needs to take notes and…! She paws through drawers, growing more irate with the not-finding than the original task annoyed her. Things… crumpled, unused marks from paydays gone by, pens, erasers, a hairbrush, stationary, paper clips… get piled willy-nilly upon her desktop while she empties her drawers. The mess gets stared at. What? Was? She? Doing? Cleaning her desk? "Augh!" She pauses to double-palm her face, a move that continues upwards that ends with a two-handed rake of slim fingers through her hair. She's now hot AND frustrated and… //restless. She rises and leaves the mess behind, exits her office to stalk blindly down the long hallway past the wingleaders ready room and the council chambers to the steward's office where she yanks the door open and walks in without knocking.

The office of the steward. A place of… certain traits, which may have been described in other situations but remain (or become) relevant to this one. It may be defined by a wide variety of characteristics, and it is only by the confluence of them that it is distinguished from other offices. One of the more definitive characteristics of it is also only intermittently true; it contains a steward. Specifically, it contains Xanadu's current steward, who is - in specific – Jethaniel. Why is he in his office? Perhaps it has something to do with the plans for the observation level refit; he's been working on those, as Seryth's eggs approach hatching. Once the sands are clear, there will be an opportunity to begin work, and so finalizing those schematics and schedules has been one of the things keeping Jethaniel in the office lately. An alternative (or possibly supplementary) explanation is that he's waiting for Darsce to come find him and suggest they go to dinner. There are, after all, generally a variety of things with which he can continue to occupy himself while she finishes whatever tasks she's picked up over the course of her day, and arranging his schedule such that his free time coincides with hers tends to result in an increased enjoyment of that time. As such, he sometimes arranges matters suitably. A third possibility is one also supported by the physical evidence - a man with a wingrider's knot, sitting in one of the chairs across Jethaniel's desk. He's leaning forward, hands in the middle of some vehement statement that likely corresponds with the words he's uttering. "-schedule's not going to work, we've got-" The tone is heated. Aren't Quasar riders supposed to be diplomatic? Jethaniel frowns across the desk, one hand against its surface, a drum of fingertips paused between beats. The other hand is hidden beneath it, the fingers curved together with tension he is attempting to conceal. His mouth opens on what might become a rejoinder, but that's the moment when Darsce enters, and whatever words he was about to say are replaced by silence as he turns to look at her. The rider does as well, and for a moment, the two of them are simply staring. Jethaniel recovers first. "Darsce." It is, as statements go, a relatively simple one. It might be clarified by further explanation. It isn't, because Jethaniel is having difficulty changing contexts at the moment, much as he was having difficulty in arriving at a fair and equitable resolution for the issue presented by this wingrider.

Darsce appears uncaring that she's just interrupted some sort of meeting, important or otherwise. Or make that oblivious. The sparkle of moisture in her eyes is backlit by frustration and… something else smoldering behind that. She advances on the desk with a purposeful stride that only falters when she seems to notice the seated Galaxy rider. "You. Out," she orders in a clipped tone with an icefire glare at the man and a jerk of her head to indicate the door. From the way she proceeds around that desk, she expects him gone post-haste. "Jethaniel, I need…" Her voice is strangled, high-pitched, but whatever she needs, she doesn't verbalize. She stops just inches from his chair with a tumult of confusion in her eyes and one hand outstretched towards him, while the other lifts to undo the first few buttons of her dress. "I'm hot," she almost-wails as if he can do something about that. And indeed, there is the cooling system, but she's not mentioning that. The Galaxy rider? Forgotten. The headwoman takes the final steps to the seated steward, both hands reach to his shoulders, push the chair back, swivels it to face her then takes possession of his lap by hiking her tight miniskirt up and swinging a leg over to sit astride him. Her forehead presses to his and she breathes accusingly, "You weren't- aren't in my drawers."

In the mind of that rider, yes. It's a very important meeting. If it were not, he would not have been arguing so vehemently - though that intensity also has something to do with the emotions filtering to him through his dragonbond. That's also why his eyes sweep down over Darsce, taking in her figure. He's, ah, not looking at it with an eye to doing the accounts. Nor does he leave, despite Darsce's command. He's too busy looking, and then he opens his mouth. "I'd like ta schedule you." Because they were talking about schedules, but actual timetables aren't what's on his mind anymore. They must have escaped through that open door - the one the rider isn't making his way through, even if his diplomacy's already gone. Darsce undoing her buttons brings him out of his chair, but… not out the door. Not immediately. He lingers, hopeful for a change of perspective that might make things more… fair, at least according to his perspective; which is to say, more favorable for him.

To Jethaniel's mind, the meeting is - was - of only moderate importance. This difference in their perceptions is likely due to different calibrations of the scale, and Darsce's arrival has further recalibrated Jethaniel's; her presence is sufficiently important that he does not object to her decision to interrupt this particular meeting. His eyes remain on her, though he nods for her need - whatever it is, it has risen in priority such that it requires immediate action. It is not, however, the only action required, because it's at this juncture that the rider reminds Jethaniel of his presence. The words are sufficient to make Jethaniel look away from Darsce. The fact that he must do so is a contributing factor to the coldness of the look he gives the rider. "We will reschedule." The words are clipped and hard, and Jethaniel's flattened mouth and lowered brows make his reiteration and support of Darsce's command clear, even if the words themselves may be somewhat ambiguous. Jethaniel is cold to the rider, but given Darsce's self-expressed high temperature, that does not last. In fact, there is an external source of heat being added, and so the equilibrium point - when they discover it - is likely to be significantly elevated. The cooling system, under these circumstances, may not be effectual - no matter how well-maintained. The steward's chair is also well-maintained, and it slides and turns easily as Darsce pushes it. Jethaniel's eyes return to her, and as she claims his lap, his arms go around her - one against her back, the other… slightly lower. "I am not," he answers, not without some perplexity. Neither is he in her knickers, and he is, furthermore, not thinking about the precise positioning of his hands. "I am here." Beneath her. He is thinking about that, though the thoughts are not particularly abstract nor complex.

Freudian slips aside, not that Darsce doesn't want Jethaniel in her drawers, beneath her is also fine with her. Schedules? Oh is that what they were talking about? That Quasar wingrider gets a one-fingered salute, "Schedule this," she snaps irritably on the way around Jethaniel's desk. The rider's attempt to get a peek at her cleavage would have succeeded had Darsce not dipped her head forward to press it to Jethaniel's. When she did, it was curtained by the disarray of silvery-blonde locks as they tumbled forward. Her hair won't occlude the steward's view, however. Such is the urgency in her mind that the still-present rider is forgotten again almost as soon as she's on Jethaniel's lap. So she's puzzled when he lifts his head to address the man and she's left blinking in the wake of his clipped, hard tone. She's never heard him like that- but oh! "You’re still here?" Darsce reacts without thinking. She reaches for something - whatever's handy (not the computer) and lobs it at the Galaxy rider, follows that up with, "Get out!" Meanwhile her arms are sliding around Jethaniel's neck. Darsce is hot, but apparently cooling off isn't her goal.

Oh, yes, the rider's still here, because evidently he doesn't take well to hints - or even things less subtle than hints. The level of unsubtlety which he appears to require is that constituted by a glass bottle of ink, flung toward him. Upon encountering him, it transforms into an assortment of sparkling glass shards and black ink. There… may also be a few spots of red in with the black, but at least the rider gets the idea and his cursing, as he beats a retreat, is more irritation than pain.

Jethaniel is also being provided with things less subtle than hints by Darsce, but the things she suggests to him are… rather different. He appreciates that view; he does not appreciate the wingrider's interference - because, given the situation, he's having difficulty recalling that the initial meeting was with the Quasar rider and Darsce is the one who interrupted it. He might apologize later for that interruption, but… he also doesn't appreciate the rider's interest in Darsce; hence his tone with the man. As such… Jethaniel might not apologize. He may - despite an awareness of the problematic nature of both certain actions and the motivations thereof - choose to say nothing, and thereby continue to implicitly support Darsce's actions and interruption. He is certainly not, at present, inclined to give the ink-spattered rider any more attention than is necessary to note his withdrawal from the room. There is a far more urgent matter occupying his attention, as well as his lap. She's hot. His arms wrap around her, his vague growing tension finding a specification. The specification is one which does not rely on exterior circumstances, though they do accelerate certain aspects. On any given day, Jethaniel would still enjoy - and respond to - Darsce straddling his lap. He would, perhaps, be more conscious of both their potential audience and the unfinished business of his responsibilities as steward, but no influences from outside these caverns - or, indeed, past the current radius of his arms - are required for him to lean toward Darsce and seek her lips with his.

Later perhaps Darsce will notice those ink splatters and wonder how they got there. Should she run into an ink-spotted rider she'll double-take and vaguely associate him with Jethaniel's office while puzzling why she's made such a connection. Should the incident be reported to the Quasar wingleader, Darsce will be genuinely confused to be linked to the event. Right now all she knows is the fast-beating rhythm in her mind and ears drives her to searching and in searching she has found what she was looking for. And having found… She doesn't even wait to note whether that rider has left after she threw the ink bottle before she's offering her lips to Jethaniel and when he takes them, they part encouragingly. She's pleased he's leaned forward to do so because now her hands may slip down his back to entice that shirt up.

Jethaniel's shirt proves as responsive to Darsce's enticements as he himself is, the fabric sliding up along his back as his lips press to hers. With the rider gone, Jethaniel lacks any motivation to resist sufficiently concrete for him to, at the present moment, comprehend. There are reasons why his office remains suboptimal as the location for a kiss that deepens as his lips part in echo of hers and he is sufficiently encouraged - and the kiss reaches sufficient depth - that his tongue becomes involved. Darsce's desire is obvious, her lack of self-control equally so, but Jethaniel finds it easier to note the positive of these traits; presence is more apparent than absence. His hand trails down, tracing over her rear and - he's reached beneath her skirt before he realizes it was his intention to do so, further hiking the fabric. It is the presence of his fingers there that he notes, drawing his attention to the absence of a conscious decision. This is not sufficient cause for him to remove them, nor even to draw his lips away from Darsce's, but his mouth and fingers grow still for a moment as he thinks, very hard (it's very hard to think) about what he is doing and the likely furtherances thereof. Those thoughts make it extremely hard to continue thinking in any sort of coherent fashion. They have, in fact, a strong correspondence to his desires. This is not necessarily a reason for him to resist them… or Darsce… but it takes Jethaniel both time and effort to draw a logical chain of thought through the blur of desire.

Darsce's hands slide slowly up with that shirt, palms pressed to bare skin, fingers each moving separately from each other to appreciate what they're feeling, even though her focus is that kiss. Mmm! His kiss. Darsce finds it hard to think without dragons involved. Right now? No, she can't do it. How does he even manage to attempt it? There are better places, true. But he is here. Darsce… cannot think beyond that. And so she melts into him as that kiss deepens and groans against his mouth as his fingers slip beneath her skirt. When those fingers go still, her lids lift - heavy, reluctant to do so, but they do. Her lips remain upon his but there's an incoherent question. It could be interpreted as a plea. There's nothing logical about it - it's all passion, desire and turbulence. If she's compromising him, forgive her, she can't think that logically. Can't think beyond the heat consuming her and the need to be free of the clothing that restricts her and the chair that limits movement.

Jethaniel has spent turns thinking and training himself to think; seeking answers, questioning premises, applying rationality to all manner of things. As such… he attempts it now. Darsce's fingertips on his back increase the challenge of doing so as they trail upward. Her warmth (she's hot) and presence against him, the way it seems to focus in the softness of her lips pressed firmly to his… also make it harder. There are better places, but that's too abstract a thought for Jethaniel to hold right now. The effects on his reputation - no, social maneuvering is far too complicated a concept for him. The thought he has to pursue is Darsce (he's caught her). The key premises include the facts that neither of them are thinking clearly, that they both desire each other, and - this last is the one he's had to strain to recall, as it is less self-evident than the others - she wants him, in a sense that includes but is not limited to the desires of this moment. He may - with her permission - accept her desire now, even knowing that it is not wholly her own. He may desire her… and he does, so he interrupts the question on her lips with the press of his own, and brings his other hand down to join the first, seeking past fabric for the smooth touch (and heat) of her skin. His technique for clothing resolution is not the most optimal; his algorithm seeks local gains and is disinclined to delay gratification.

Darsce cannot delay, is not clear-headed enough to consider relocating or to consider ramifications; they live in a Weyr - half or better of the population is caught up in the same thing they are - so if reputations are tarnished, it's by those unaffected. And those are people Darsce likely will later dismiss. Jethaniel has indeed caught her and as such, should he relinquish her now she would be totally at a loss and inconsolable. Her inarticulate query is met with hands slipping under fabric, which rends easily enough - it's fragile. The floor - in front of the desk anyway - is littered with ink and glass shards. This leaves the desktop, the chair and the floor behind the desk. Not that Darsce consciously considers this. Just… she isn't inclined to delay her… need… either. Her hands find Jethainel's shirt problematic. Buttons are much too complex for this moment and thus her fingers seek the material at the bottom front of the garment, grip it and with one swift jerk, she pulls it asunder while buttons pop-pop-pop-pop and fly to litter the floor. The shirt? Whisked aside irritably all the while Darsce applies her mouth to Jethaniel's, moving only to press heated kisses to his jaw and throat while her hands wander over his chest, slipping down to his flanks and then to the small of his back where they are stymied by his belted trousers.

The floor behind the desk is now littered with buttons. They are, however, less problematic than shards of glass, and as such, do not restrict in the same manner the actions that may be performed in that space. Jethaniel may - later - note that he wishes the shirt repaired, and spend time on the floor seeking for those buttons. Now, as they go flying, he hardly even notices. What he does notice is Darsce's hands along his chest, and he expresses his opinion of that in an incoherent murmur of pleasure, lips parting against hers and failing to close again even once hers have departed to press at stubbled skin. Jethaniel - amidst these kisses - tilts his head in to press his lips to - around - the rim of Darsce's ear, a graze of teeth as he voices something - a groan, elevated to syllables by movements of lips and tongue that may be incidental to the vocalization. One of his hands curves, fingers splayed, around her rump, while the other traces - without removing itself from beneath fabric, and thus with a tearing thereof that goes unnoticed except insofar as it facilitates the touch he desires - around the curve of her hip until he finds that her position against him makes further motion along that curve infeasible. Her hands are stopped by his belt; the leather is less easily torn than fabric, and the fastening which would, once eased, permit Darsce's hands to continue is located at some distance from those hands. Jethaniel has, however, his own desire to be free of them - perhaps the pause of his own hand drew his attention to it? Or perhaps it's simply the proximity that permits the mental leap which draws his hand to his own trousers, tugging at the belt with rough yanks to untwine it.

The timbre of Jethaniel’s voice curls somewhere in the vicinity of Darsce gut and pulls, much like the yanking of that belt but with much more warmth. It makes her want to press in, when she must reluctantly shift back so he mat have access to the buckle. She does so, but nothing prevents her from sliding her hands up to run fingers through his hair and then tipping his head forward so she may press her lips to it. She loves his hair. She’s not coherent, enough tell him with words but… perhaps she’ll remember to verbalize it later. Her hands eventually descend but the chair, it is awkwardly limiting. Yet she can’t bring herself to leave him even to rise to seek another spot – not that there’s conscious thought given to the matter. In the skies there are aerial maneuvers dives and twists and flips. Darsce… arches backwards but her arms remain around Jethaniel. Flying? Perhaps controlled falling?

Control? Jethaniel has little of that, at the moment. He makes no attempt to exert it on his interaction with his own belt, the motions rough and hurried. His other hand slides up to the small of her back, greedy for contact even as she - of temporary necessity - shifts away. The touch there is no less urgent, but it has far greater warmth. He does not care if his clothing is rent and torn - or even that the belt tugs against his waist and digs into his hand as he rushes to free himself of it and the trousers it holds. His touch to Darsce is not merely goal-directed but also a goal; he cares about and desires it. He desires her, though he does not actually make any verbal statement to that effect as her fingers run through his hair. His eyes are filled with it, his lips slightly parted to breathe it quickly, but when she tilts his head those lips simply follow the direction of those eyes, pressing kisses to her collarbone and down so far as he can reach along the curve of breasts exposed by undone buttons. There are no words, and yet - Jethaniel has noticed when Darsce's fingers tease and play with his hair. The keratinous fibers have no nerve endings, save at their follicle, but he is aware. He is aware of her presence, her touch - and, as his hand goes from belt to trousers and undoes them with the same urgent motions, aware that he cannot, within the limits of the chair, remove to his satisfaction the constraints of clothing. He's sitting on those trousers and the pants beneath, and though their unfastening will permit Darsce's hands further access… he desires more, though he is capable neither of articulating it nor taking calm and reasoned action to seek to solve the problem. Instead, he wraps his arms around Darsce in an expression of the desire to pull her close.

Those kisses to her collarbone and lower only serve to ignite Darsce's perception of being overheated… of need… of desire. She is not being kind to clothing today, hers or otherwise. Her response to the touch of lips on the skin exposed within the V of her shirt is to give them better access. Her hands slips from around Jethaniel even as his arms tighten, providing her arched-back posture some stability. Her buttons join the ones already on the floor as with one deft jerk she parts the garment and shrugs out of it with a writhe of shoulders. The movement is carried through with one arm going back around Jethaniel's neck to reclaim him while the other snakes between them, one finger slipping between her cleavage from below to hook the lacy garment there. The following yank parts the fragile threads of it with an audible snap; it's left to hang from her shoulders in tatters and now her hand is free to resume its finger-journey through his hair. She'll remain bent back for the time being, supported by his arms unless he repositions her.

Jethaniel might object to the removal of Darsce's hands, but any half-formed complaints are entirely overshadowed by his reaction to what those hands do. His gaze is eager to observe more of her skin, grey eyes seeking over the curves of her chest and the smoothness of her stomach glimpsed down past them. His lips desire to do the same, and so those kisses continue, his mouth pressing to her breasts as their mobility is increased by the removal of supportive garments. He pursues, lips parting in attempts at capture that would be significantly more effective were they facilitated by an appendage suited to the task of manipulation… but his hands are on Darsce's back, helping to support her in this arched position. Regardless of their efficacy at the apparent purpose, the motions are certainly conducive to the increase of Jethaniel's desire - which is already such that it is not conducive to thought. His body shifts beneath her as he grinds up from the chair with a rolling motion that - given that he has not solved the logistical issues of their relative placement - is not effective in achieving those desires, and is merely an expression of them.

It's really a wonder they don't topple over onto the floor. But they seem to manage balance somehow. Darsce gasps; Jethaniel does quite well without the assistance of his hand in finding what his lips seek and the response under them is indicative of his effectiveness in awakening nerves and tissues already buzzing with Luraoth's influence. The fingers on his shoulders spasm and her legs shift in response to the movements he makes. Her torso ripples with pleasure as tongue moves, hands grip and hips roll. She wants him; he is under her. But it is not enough. She's awkward, there's no motor-planning for this situation and she emits a muted cry of frustration.

Jethaniel's proprioception - unlike his cognitive ability - is not, under the current circumstances, reduced. If anything, it may be enhanced, though that seems an unlikely explanation for why they have avoided falling. More likely, the perceived increase in sensitivity is merely an aspect of the focus on those sensations. They remain, thus far, in the chair; a reduction of proprioception or an increase in cognition could both serve to remove them. Darsce's gasp is an encouragement to Jethaniel, and as such, it incentivizes him to continue on the course of action he has begun - one that is - while pleasurable - not enough. He wants her, but he does not - cannot - think enough to change his course of action, adjust his parameters that he may achieve success - until he hears the frustration in her voice. The sound of unhappiness jars him for a moment from his current actions - elevated by the lack of capability for any more complex scenario into the status of plan. They are forgotten, and he is left with merely his desire for Darsce and her desire for him. From these first principles, he acts. His prior efforts to remain in the chair are also forgotten. His head lifts, his arms adjust their positions around Darsce, and he attempts to rise from his chair. He does so regularly. The dynamics are, however, changed by the presence of another body, and so it takes him by surprise when, halfway through the motion, the chair pushes back more than he expects (for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction) and he finds himself - Darsce still held in his arms - tumbling down to a seat on the floor.

They could have tumbled against the desk. That would have hurt! Jethaniel's floor-ward fall, the sudden motion of him stopping when he hits it has the equal and opposite reaction of Darsce bouncing, though the away is limited by gravity and thus she lands upon him once more. He is still under her. His arms are still around her. She is not unpleased with either of those facts. The sudden change of location does not faze her in the least. Jethaniel. She found him. He is hers and she wants him. Her mini skirt has ridden up to the extent that it is not problematic. The undergarment beneath? Gone in the interim between her claiming his lap and the present. She twists, seeking to be closer to him. Her hands, slipping around him and down the bare skin of his torso to hips, finding the confines of trousers seek to aid their removal by pushing them down - at least enough to be sufficient. Somewhere in this writhing maneuvering they wind up under the desk. On the floor. This is also not problematic to her.

While it is unlikely the tumble to the floor was pleasant - the relative effects of falling into it and the desk aside - it is not sufficient to distract Jethaniel from Darsce. The curl of his body, in instinctive reaction to the fall, is against hers. This is not the change in their position that he intended, but the brief endeavor in forward-planning and complex thought is gone now; Jethaniel's focus is on Darsce. His desire for her. The urge - also instinctive - that she rouses in him. She could redirect him, but nothing less than that is capable. And she doesn't; her hands follow bare skin until they find the trousers, and he feels her intention in the tugs of the fabric, grunts as he shifts with her, rolling half over - this might be the part where they arrive beneath the desk; he doesn't notice - so his hips are lifted and, with the aid of Darsce's fingers, exposed. Sufficiently so, though the trousers pool around his knees. He does not care about the rumpled fabric; what he cares for is that he can - wants to - will - press to Darsce. There is no hesitation, no question. His hips, lifted, press down at hers. His body seeks hers. She found him; he will have her.

Once those trousers are no longer a barrier, Darsce’s hands skim upwards over lean backside, to curve about hips and encourage the motions Jethaniel makes. There is nothing in her mind but Jethaniel and being close, closer to him and to this end she arches to meet his downward press. Lost buttons, torn fabric, wrinkled clothing? Not a remote concern. Her arms slip more fully around him and the hold is nothing short of possessive as her lips seek his neck, leave a trail of kisses, following the jawline until she finds his mouth and the sounds she makes against it are pleased ones. Her body is found by him; they have each other.

Jethaniel is with Darsce; this is his focus and the extent of his awareness. His location is with Darsce; that they are on the floor of his office is no concern of his. Fortunately, his desk is a sturdy one, and unlikely to give way even if they bump into it during the course of their activity. Those actions of his are with Darsce; his body presses to hers, finding the closeness they both desire as his hips keep moving, eager and urgent in their continued pursuit. His lips part in a pleased groan, because he is with Darsce; they are still so when hers find them, and he answers her sounds with his own. His breathing turns to panting, but he does not slow in his motions nor even withdraw his lips, the heat of his breath mingling with their pressure.

There's a lost button digging into the back of Darsce's scalp where her head rests upon the floor. She doesn't quite feel it, however later there'll be a tender spot where it pressed. That desk could collapse on them and she'd barely notice it, though poor Jethaniel would take the brunt of that. She doesn't even remember that Galaxy rider being here, let alone whether he's left the office door open when he departed; moreover she doesn't care right now. Someone could walk through it and she would be oblivious because she can only hear Jethaniel's utterances and the singing beat of her own blood in her ears. Her own breathing is comprised of gasps through her nose; her mouth absorbed with things other than breathing, instead savoring the hot breath on her lips and tongue. She writhes, her lithe form twining with his body; even after shudders wrack hers she's arching to meet him as her arms cling tightly to him. There is only Jethaniel. Hers!

Beyond these walls, high up in the sky, the chase of dragons is ending. Luraoth's desire eases; Jethaniel continues. There is no change to his motion, because Darsce is his. He is the one who desires her, he is the one who has her; he is the one who thrusts to her shuddering body, joining it with his own. If that desk fell on him now, he would not stop. Darsce is his. He does not care about their torn and scattered clothing, nor the inkstains on his floor, nor that someone could walk in and see them so. All Jethaniel cares about is Darsce, and he presses to her until his body shudders, eyes pressing closed as for a moment he forgets even to breathe. Darsce is his, and Jethaniel has his desire - to give her everything of him.

Darsce's arms do not loosen when the chase in the sky ends. If anything, they hold Jethaniel more securely, although the curvature of them changes subtly to be more reverent, more loving. She's still lost to the rest of their surroundings, the chaos the steward's office has become, the possibility of someone coming in, where they are, even; in her universe, there is only Jethaniel. And though she likes his present actions, she is aware that this is but a portion of him; she's greedy, indeed she wants everything of him. A lifetime will not be enough time, but it's all they have. In that moment when Jethaniel does not breathe, Darsce is aware of minute things, his sweat-damp hair tickling her cheeks, the roughness of his jaw alongside hers, the thud of his heart drumming against hers and their union. It isn't everything of him; it is enough for now.

To give everything is impossible, and yet it is what Jethaniel wishes. He has that desire; it guides his actions, influences his behavior. He works toward it, though it is a desire he cannot completely fulfill; he nevertheless is glad for each portion of it he achieves, each step along a journey that he might wish to be endless but will last only a lifetime. He is glad for Darsce, and glad that he is here with her - though the precise location of 'here' is not something he considers, even after he has begun once more to breathe. His eyes open, but all they see is Darsce. The shadows cast on her face are strange, in the indirect light beneath the desk, but though he notes this, he does not draw any conclusions as to the cause, simply seeing Darsce, feeling her arms around him and her body with his. The touch of her skin is wonderful; the tangle of his trousers is less so, creases in the fabric digging into his legs. His thoughts remain scattered, but what he knows is that he is with Darsce. Her heart beats fast with his, though those hurried tempos will slow. Now, before they do, his lips press to hers again. Only for a moment, because he is - now - aware of his need to breathe, and he cannot deny it to his body. He… perhaps should move from Darsce, for the sake of her own breathing, but he does not - though he shifts slightly, taking more of his weight onto his arms and knees as his eyes remain on her face.

Darsce will have to be careful because there's so much of Jethaniel she wants to know and in wanting she might inadvertently put undue pressure on him. She feels she has little to give back but appreciation of his depth, knowledge and sensitivity and though she might never tell him she thinks he's working with a deficit, she will be free with her admiration and appreciation, letting him see she treasures each gift of himself he shares with her. Yes, he should breathe but she doesn't want him to leave her; she wants him to remain close and hold her. So she attempts to nudge him over on his side. The floor is not the most comfortable place to pass out. People will be coming in the morning. Darsce is not thinking of how pulling tattered clothing about herself and slinking back to her quarters will look. Her gaze - and focus remains on Jethaniel's face as she returns that kiss, sweetening it softly while murmuring, "I love you," against his lips.

There's a moment when Jethaniel does not wish to move; when he wishes to hold himself over Darsce, taking in her presence, appreciating… her, in a way he was unable to entirely achieve in his prior urgency. After that, though, he eases off her and to his side, eyes remaining on her. His hand lifts, trailing gentle fingertips along her temple and down to her cheek. "And I love you," he echoes her. A simple truth, though the applications are complex. In his role as Steward, he is familiar with deficits and surpluses, the inputs and outputs that make up the budget. For Darsce, he keeps no such accounts. What he has, he will give her. What he receives from her is valued - in his assessment - along an asymptotic curve, the value sufficiently great that he can hardly calculate it. "You are beautiful," he adds as he tucks a sweat-soaked curve of hair back to behind her ear. The words are quiet, a factual observation mingled with the earnest affection that defines his gaze. The floor is not the most comfortable of places, but Jethaniel offers himself for Darsce's pillow, drawing her close. It is his intention to rest only briefly, enough to appreciate their closeness, then… assess the situation and conduct suitable relocations. When they leave this room, he'll offer his shirt for Darsce to wear. It is presently as lacking in buttons as her own, but - being meant for a larger frame - may be more effectively wrapped around her and held in place while they make their way back through the caverns.

Darsce hardly knows what to say to Jethaniel's pronouncement. She's heard it before, but because she spends so much effort on her appearance, that's not surprising. That Jethaniel thinks so, means much to her - especially since at the moment she is sweat-damp, her hair is tumbled in disarray and she's - partially - in shredded underclothing (except for that pushed-up miniskirt - that survived intact). She'll gladly accept his shirt. Hers… was not all that modest to begin with and minus the buttons there is no overlap of material to cover her. Not that there's anyone about to see her, but still. One never knows. Her discarded shirt? Lower undergarments? Ahhh, they're forgotten and left where they were tossed along with those glass shards and ink-splotches. She may, given that the bathing caverns are likely deserted this time of night - or early morning, depending - may seek to divert their direction that way - they're a mess! (his office fared worse though?) She's sated, but languor lingers and the soak in the hot springs, however brief will ease sore muscles and help them sleep the better for it. Not to mention… bathing with him is not an altogether unpleasant prospect even if not prolonged. The following day will be off to a slow start so they may sleep entwined in comfort to rest until they must leave their sanctuary and face what presents itself.

In the morning, Jethaniel will discover that there are elements of his office that require a return to order. Tonight, he may notice the crunch of glass under his shoe as he departs, but he will not take the time to investigate it. His trousers, pulled up and fastened, provide him with sufficient modesty - given the hopefully-empty state of the caverns. His shirt is for Darsce, because she is beautiful and because she is - tumbled and sweaty - not as she presents herself to the world. He sees her so, but… he does not want other eyes on her. Not like this. Thus, the shirt - though he'll stop with her at the bathing caverns, to rinse the sweat from their bodies and warm tired muscles before they take another tumble - this one, into a bed far more comfortable than floor, and thus, with bodies tangled together, sleep will claim them quickly. Tomorrow, there are consequences. Tonight, Jethaniel is with Darsce.

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