[It lures him, though it shouldn't — the way Laurent crowds himself back toward the wall, the look he turns through pale eyelashes, the painstaking words. No part of him denies what is said. He doesn't know, and he's never learned or cared to learn how to satisfy himself. He thinks, watching Laurent's stillness without the violence of a spitting, tetchy cat as in previous encounters, that he wants to know what it may take. For the first time, it seems a dare toward desire after living a life bereft of all selfish pleasure.
Part of that is terrifying. It is a dark fall at his feet, taking him down. In this moment, for the first time since they've spoken of it, he begins to care for his own lack of experience. He can't recall the last he had touched someone else — someone who is not Laurent. Laurent, Laurent, Laurent. In the shower, together in the fountain, a grappling of slick wet limbs and burning physical attraction. All of it consumes his memory; prior to Laurent, he's touched so few in his life beyond the battlefield, even in the most basic exchanges of fondness and affection. It would be better if he knew what to do.
Sasuke steps in, shaking his head as if to rid the thought, as if a silent answer to that question posed. Within Laurent's circle of personal space, the pressure of want is overwhelming — his touch is guided easily beneath the hem of a shirt. A cool hand on hot skin, passing gently over the curve of a waist, finding the shallow slope at the small of his back. Then up, climbing his spine in a broad swipe so the shirt hitches higher, exposing pale skin to the air.
And at the same time, he lowers his head into Laurent's throat as if it has become suddenly too heavy. His cheek rubs in a tentative caress; he can feel Laurent's pulse beneath his lips. Erratic, like a flicker of wings.]
Just this. [Sasuke's voice is a low rumble, felt where they touch — worse nature might have crushed Laurent to the wall, sealed them together with forceful dominance; he holds himself by the reins of self-will. A nose nudges up to the delicate shell of one ear. Everywhere, exploratory.] It's fine.
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Part of that is terrifying. It is a dark fall at his feet, taking him down. In this moment, for the first time since they've spoken of it, he begins to care for his own lack of experience. He can't recall the last he had touched someone else — someone who is not Laurent. Laurent, Laurent, Laurent. In the shower, together in the fountain, a grappling of slick wet limbs and burning physical attraction. All of it consumes his memory; prior to Laurent, he's touched so few in his life beyond the battlefield, even in the most basic exchanges of fondness and affection. It would be better if he knew what to do.
Sasuke steps in, shaking his head as if to rid the thought, as if a silent answer to that question posed. Within Laurent's circle of personal space, the pressure of want is overwhelming — his touch is guided easily beneath the hem of a shirt. A cool hand on hot skin, passing gently over the curve of a waist, finding the shallow slope at the small of his back. Then up, climbing his spine in a broad swipe so the shirt hitches higher, exposing pale skin to the air.
And at the same time, he lowers his head into Laurent's throat as if it has become suddenly too heavy. His cheek rubs in a tentative caress; he can feel Laurent's pulse beneath his lips. Erratic, like a flicker of wings.]
Just this. [Sasuke's voice is a low rumble, felt where they touch — worse nature might have crushed Laurent to the wall, sealed them together with forceful dominance; he holds himself by the reins of self-will. A nose nudges up to the delicate shell of one ear. Everywhere, exploratory.] It's fine.