Virginal Lips
Disclaimer: If they were mine, they'd be naughtier beyond even my own imagination, which happens to be saying something.
A.N: my first Les Miserables fanfiction. i won't ask you to be nice, just to be completely honest regarding this little drabble of mine, which is reward enough :
He watches lovers kiss, sees the heart-shaped butterflies that whisper, sees the gesture that is both wholly chaste and consumingly intimate all at once, the rose-tipped, shyly opened lips enfold, and possess. He watches.
And then he turns. When Valentin and Jacques kiss, lips do not touch. Because, of course, a kiss is called a kiss only when two mouths embrace. White marble silk on pink soft velvet, they rub, their noses tracing the strong, but delicate, contours of each others', sweet flushed tongues caressing under a modestly lowered eyelash. They are graceful, quite flawlessly so, but they fumble, and their lovely boy-man voices purr as they finally fit against each other like the pieces of a puzzle. The deep, carnal sound reverberates as they twine, heads thrown back and they gasp; supple white linen exposes just a bit more skin against skin, as two centres collide achingly, blatantly.
Elegant, long fingers meet and web together, and their bodies bump and align in parallel, leg wound around calf, hips brushing, the tendrils of blond and auburn mingling tentatively. Eyes tight closed, gleaming.
Blind sensation, because.
Breathe, and exhale, and sigh.
If I but touch you, I will not kiss you. If I do not kiss you, I cannot love you. If I won't love you, I cannot love you. If I won't love you, I shan't lose you.
Because I have never lost anything, and never intend to. Because not all that are found can be utterly found. The trick is never to have, in the first place.
Combeferre heaves a sigh, and blows out the candles so the boys can finally open their eyes.
finis.
