The Door

He tastes like berries and salt, his teeth like a tactile alphabet on my tongue, my kiss like reading an unknown manuscript whose language I don’t know, but whose calligraphical elegance delights my sense of touch. The room seems a strange choice, for a first kiss- all the bridge of this ship, his rooms with all his classical art exhibitions, and we are in this cell that is a little more than disappointing for our senses of aesthetics.
I feel the pressure of knee on knee, almost savouring it in its perfect simplicity. He’s warm on my naked skin, the fabric sliding on me as he adjust his body to a more perfect angle for our kiss. His lips are velvety, smooth on mine as we broke the initial pose to brush little touches of lips on lips. Then his palm on my knee, and the polished surface of the cell’s bench that gives way to my supporting hand.
”Sovhan…”
Beautiful. I smile blindly a secretive smile, now, touching him on his nape, feeling the lines his skin and his bones create for my fingers. He braces himself against my mouth again, breathing in time with me, each second less calmly, almost frantic in tilting his neck under my hand, towards our lips. Then he moves his palm under my knee, bringing me half on his lap, my right thigh above his left, my other leg folded under my weight.
I sink my fingers down his collar, burning me in his warmth, carrying on the dance of this slow seduction we both planned for months and hunted down for too long to give up to fervour and crush this beautiful object d’art we are creating, like a symphony whose basso continuo is the calligraphical slowness of our kisses.
His heartbeat is furious under my fingers as I play like a harp his muscles, and suddenly his hand creeps higher, nearing my core, making me dizzy with its message- no more fooling around. I keep on undoing his coat helped by his right hand that pauses to bring my wrist to his mouth, and I open my eyes again, to look into this feverish yet controlled gaze, biting my pulse as he briefly abandons my thigh to free his own torso to the air and to my touch.
And now he seems a predator, his hair untidy, his blue skin a little less pale, aroused, unmoving and touching me only at my leg.
”Va’hidam kam.”
I want you now, I say hoarsely. This sounds so sensuous, wonderful in his mother tongue, I think as his eyes darken yet more. As hypnotized we fasten our looks as his long fingers travel down my coat opening a way between my breasts to my navel. Symmetrically his hands bare me for his touch, working together in blind precise moves.
My back shivers at the cold plastic touch of the bench. His hair feels so soft on my hands as again I claim his mouth. He arches on me, trying to find the opening of my skirt with his left hand. Suddenly, as I tense with anticipation as his reaching his goal, he probes me with a cold, cautious finger. I yelp, he chuckles, surely pleased having caught me unaware.
With all the resolution I’m capable of right now I tear all the rest of his clothes away, as he’s blindly doing the same on me, then we part for the seconds necessary to kick out our boots. Graceful, he murmurs on my breast, teasing me with touches of fingers on hips and navel, stopping at last all other move to kiss the hollow under my neck, biting at the two pointed bones aside it.
Come home…
My voice is made of nothing as I play with his cheekbones, as he brings his head perfectly tilted to mine and his hands find my hair, winding up the lose chignon, blue on golden waves in the opaque light of the cell, in a frenzied flash in my mind. As he enters me his intent face falls into pleasure, his (our) control slipping away. We kiss again before beginning to move, merging into the shimmering sea of bliss, into the perfect tempo of hips on hips, of kisses and touches that scream of love and belonging, of his mouth on my chin and I arch my neck in pleasure, of him in me, so simple, so blinding in mind and body, because he’s himself, him, with me. And as we come my teeth into his shoulder sing mine, mine, mine, as does his mouth sobbing my name on my neck, in his end.

Long fingers awaken me with small feathery touches on my face. Lazily I open my eyes, stirring in the warmth of our bodies. We’re on our sides, his long form aligned to mine, still covered in sweat where the cell’s air conditioning system didn’t dry his skin.
”How long have I been out?”
He bends on my lips again, chastely but still sensuously kissing me. “I don’t know, Sovhan.”
He’s so different from his usual self, so relaxed and almost dazed in the aftermath of lovemaking. And he’s beautiful to my eyes, as he calls me, like I never though he would have been to me. For a moment I contemplate him, then I feel the urge to deepen the contact, to come back to the bliss we just experienced. To have him again, fulfilling the strong pull to him that exasperates me and still makes me feel-
As if for an almost scientific analysis we begin together to delicately trace the lines of each other’s body, intent in discovering other paths to pleasure, to test with our fingers tactile elegance of our shapes, in the silent music of our quickening breath. Slowly our caresses create pools of bliss where our senses swim indolently echoing the touches of a new, more confident exploration. Then the pace becomes less controlled, more feverish, we tangle our bodies again, and sighing sweetness mix with instinctive fervour, and-
”Weasel? are you all right?”
Cursing voiceless threats at the chirpy man at the other side of the comlink I manage to find the irritating device through the layers of clothes on the cell’s floor. “Weasel here. Yes, Montson, all right.”
”What happened? You didn’t show up at the convened time, neither the Grand Admiral- is he still with you?” I silence Thrawn with a finger on his thoroughly kissed lips. He smirks, understanding me. Then, silently, he goes to the door…
”Yes.”
”Very well. Here there’s a mess, we got strange news… I can’t speak right now. What happened? Were you attacked? Were you-“
”We have-“ With a noise the door opens at last under Thrawn’s last exasperated kick ”-sorry, had a problem with the cell’s door… But right now I think we’ll manage to get out.” I smiled at my lover. “Though I think you’ll have to get somebody to fix it.”
”Ah, I’ll take a note. Well, did you find something in the blasted cell? You stayed here for what, two hours?”
”Our search was- successful, lieutenant. Still don’t wait for us… End transmission, Thrawn.”
”Successful, eh? Close the door, now… or we’ll know celebrity too.”
”Celebrity suit you, love.” And finally his skin turns off all thought in my mind.
Cell’s doors incidents are so wonderful…


Disclaimer: I don’t own him. I wish I did, sometimes. George does, Tim created him. They own the Imperial Army too… Sigh. I do own the plot and the character. Costanza Weasel (eheh… reconnaissez-vous quelqu’un[e] ?) could have a series on her own. Maybe. Also, I own Montson, chirpy stupid man.
Dedication: for F. Just because…