Give Me That Body (Oneshots)

Laurent (April 21st, 1791) - Black Dove, White Dove

The door, when gently pressed, opened easily beneath my hand. And there I found Dasius, trembling in bed, and when I curled my body over his, his muscles loosened. Thus untensed, he was easy to kiss. His is a soft kiss, and gentle, and probing, and while he kissed me, I covered his forehead with my hands. 

Kissing, of course, comes easily, and more easily, stuttered breath, and I waited to hear it before backing from protesting lips to kiss beneath his chin. Earlier he had been so tight and pitched into such anxiety, "Should we leave Paris? It grows too dangerous. What if there is an uprising like the one in the fall? Laurent, what should we do? I have had such talk as I have never heard. What should we do?" His anxiety could be completely endless, and I felt pain for him in my heart. How he could wind himself up.

"No, come back," he said, very quietly, lifting his shoulders.

"When you say no you seem very young to me," hardly able to get out the words be he took me by the chin and drew me down gently.

"Stop talking," he said, framing my face in his hands, holding me back from him. I smiled at his serious face and he said, "You look like a fox. Sniffing." snif snif.

"I am sniffing for you, my little one, my pretty beast, cute, cute." Je te cherche, mon petit, mon bete mignon.

"Hush, I said," he told me, articulating his syllables in English, which then was a language I could not understand.

"Say it in French, like yourself," I said, trying to turn my face in his hands, his index fingers flexed against the length of my cheekbones and temples. His hands smelled of ink and paper. He had been reading his big books, the ones with all the words I could not understand and the pictures of men flayed.

"Chut." Hush.

"Chut," I said, managing to turn my face a little, to suck on the tender flesh between index finger and thumb. The tendon felt taut between my lips. 

"He gives me nothing. Only he comes and kisses me. What is it does he want? Cute face." 

"Comme un renard. Un malin?" Like a fox, or a demon with a fox's sly features?

"Is it up to me?" he asked, voice soft, regarding me with those eyes. 

"Your skin is so soft and clean even now. Not a vein anywhere. You are like touching a fresh tin of tinted cream. Smooth surface. I want to plunge my finger into your center and stir you up until you are ruined and well-used," I said, moving my fingers in a circular motion against his chest. "Look at how perfect he is." I used these fingers to powder my face with his imagined tincture, smiling.

"I told you to be quiet. You talk too much. Don't your lovers go completely mad?"

"Be quiet, he says. You will tell me what you want, then," I said, as he lifted his parted thighs for me, bending his knees, wanting me to sit at his hips and to open his shirt. I took on his pearl buttons one by one. His chin lifted, pushing his head back against his pillow, and he turned his face to the side. A black lock of hair had come loose from the chignon he had gathered on the nape of his neck. The way it curled upon the hollow of his throat beguiled me, and I took a breath between tight lips. "I know you think of it. Tell me."

"Do what you would, only," he said, breathing it out, as if under interrogation, mild annoyance. 

His hipbones were hard beneath me. "Take off my clothes?"

"Only do what you would."

"Must I beg you?" I asked him, coming to the end of his buttons and finding the silver clasps of his short corset beneath, unhooking them, which drew a muted, swallowed gasp from him at being released.