Trying To Get A Better Look

Leonardo:

….with his strong arms around you, his long body curled around yours from behind. One leg also lazily thrown over yours, but you don’t mind the weight. It feels good. You feel warm and safe and protected. He smells faintly of cigarillo smoke and paper and he's snoring. Not loudly, just a lightly voiced breathing sound that brings a small smile to your lips. Who ever would have thought you’d find that endearing? Love makes the smallest things special. You snuggle down within the cradle of his arms and close your eyes again, allowing sleep to reclaim you.

Mozart:

…and blink as you allow your eyes to adjust to the dim, silvery lighting of Mozart’s bedroom. He is not in bed. Rubbing your eyes, you slide out from under the warm covers and into the pale lavender velvet dressing gown he gave you for your birthday. Matching slippers protect your feet from the night’s chill as you light your chamberstick and make your way out of the bedroom, through the rich, shadowy halls until you reach the music room. He is there, at the piano, pencil in hand as he leans across the keys, scratching notes onto paper at a speed which boggles the mind. It is only when you say his name that the pencil stops and his violet gaze turns to you. It takes a moment before the fog of creation lifts and he recognizes you there. Now the yawn he has been stifling escapes. You walk over, sitting down onto the piano bench next to him, your hand coming to rest against the small of his back. Just a few more minutes he promises. You nod and he graces you with that soft smile that is only yours. A gentle kiss to your temple, a caress of your cheek and then he belongs to the music once again.

Theo:

…to feel a heavy arm thrown across your bare back, a leg draped over yours, casually possessive. You smile to yourself as you shift, memories of how the night began dancing provocatively through your mind. As you move, he stirs as well, rolling onto his side. His beautiful summer eyes never open, but his arms reach for you, pulling you against him, skin on skin. He mumbles something, asking in a voice rough with sleep if you’re ok. Your arms are tucked against his bare chest, your head using his arm as a pillow. If he would open his eyes, he’d see the sleepy, soft light of affection and love in your gaze. You tilt your head up and press a kiss to his chin, whispering that you’re fine and to go back to sleep. He huffs out a grunt in answer, but pulls you even closer with his one free arm. 

Napoleon:

…and yawn, still half in dreamland. Napoleon’s room is blanketed in shadow and his luxurious covers are heavy and warm. You move your leg, finding a cool spot under the blanket and adjust your pillow. You reach out with your hand in the dark, sliding it across the sheets until you find his. His hand is upturned, lax with sleep. You slide your hand into his and reflexively, he responds, lacing his fingers through yours. If you don’t fall asleep in his arms, you fall asleep holding hands. Always. Connected once again to the man you love, you drift off back to sleep.

Comte:

….your head pillowed on Comte’s shoulder, your arm resting across his lean abdomen. You fit against him, smooth and precise as the stones in Ashlar masonry. You lift your arm, rubbing your eyes as you slowly come out of dreaming. He breathes in deeply and then his eyes, burnished gold in the pale light, open. He glances down at you and you feel a stab of guilt at waking him. As if reading your mind, he smooths back your hair and asks if you’re alright. His voice is the gentle breeze that stirs the sleeping leaves, soft and reassuring. You nod, lifting your upper body away from him for a moment, stealing a kiss in the middle of the night. No one has ever welcomed a thief more than Le Comte. He smiles as you settle back down against him, adjusting you until you are both comfortable. You fall back asleep to the rhythm of his hand stroking your hair.

Arthur:

…to find Arthur, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Sleepily you push yourself up, shaking the last wisps of sleep out of your mind. In the pale moonlight, he looks almost like a statue, his pale skin white as marble, the lines of muscles and sinew echoing Michelangelo's David. You ask him why he’s awake, if everything is ok. He quickly reassures you that he is fine. And then, looking almost sheepish, goes on to explain that he woke an hour or so ago with an idea for a story. He’s been composing it in his mind ever since. Affection and admiration bloom in equal measure within the chambers of your heart. The mind of a writer when inspiration strikes is always a wonder to you. Leaning over, you place a kiss on his cheek, the other hand cupping the side of his face. Would he like to get up, make some notes? He catches your hand, turns to place a sweet kiss in your palm. And then a lingering kiss to your wrist. And then heated kisses down your forearm. And then you’re being pressed back down into the pillows, kisses suddenly raining down so quickly you can’t keep track. What about the story, you ask as the storm of kisses and caresses pours over you. That luv, can wait until morning.