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“You came late.”
Backstage at the Mittelfrank is a hotbed of activity on most nights. Tonight, it’s thrumming with the energy of a job well done, a successful last show of the week. People run to and fro between the stage and the dressing rooms, clearing up at twice the speed in the hopes that they can run off and start the afterparty sooner.
Amidst all that, Sylvain is still, unbothered. There’s something about the lazy way his gaze wanders, the slow smile that grows on him in the face of Dorothea’s grumbling, that draws her in.
He hasn’t brought her flowers. She’d hold it against him, if she hadn’t told him one night after too many drinks that she despises flowers, doesn’t know what to do with them, hates having to watch them wilt. Tonight, though, she wishes she had something to put between the two of them, to occupy her hands with.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I got here as fast as I could.” He’s in his riding clothes, so that isn’t a lie, necessarily. Clearly there was some haste involved. “I didn’t come so late that I didn’t hear you bring the house down, at least. You were marvelous tonight.”
Dangerous. This is all very dangerous, and there are alarms blaring in the parts of Dorothea’s brain that try to keep her safe. Sylvain Gautier is complimenting her and doing all the right things and just generally being a gentleman. There’s no way this ends well. She opens her mouth to thank him politely, in the hopes that she can brush him off or maintain some distance.
“I need to get out of costume. Come with me and we can catch up.” Well, fuck.
It’s not a new thing, at least, to lead Sylvain through the building to her private dressing room. He’s seen it all before, the mess, the clutter, without batting an eye. There are even people who recognize him, stagehands and song girls who greet him with a smile or a wink. Too many of the latter, really. By the time they make it to her room and she’s closed the door behind them, Dorothea has to hold back a sigh of relief.
There’s tension now that they’re alone, but it’s of a different kind, more familiar. Dorothea walks over to her vanity, clears away some of her things, then perches on the edge, beckoning Sylvain over. “My boots are hell to get out of. Will you help?”
It’s a testament to how their friendship has grown, that Sylvain just shoots her a grin, sits in her chair and starts unlacing the first boot. Years ago, Dorothea would have appreciated the quiet, the distinct lack of double entendres. Now, it doesn’t matter - she feels fizzy and eager all over anyway, just from their closeness. Who would’ve thought they’d end up here? Who would’ve thought she’d be the one yearning?
“Dorothea?”
Fuck. Sylvain’s been saying something, and he’s nearly done taking her other boot off, and Dorothea’s just been staring at him like an idiot. There’s really only one thing she can possibly do in the situation.
“Touch me.”
Sylvain stills, staring at her in shock. “Sorry?”
“Touch me.” She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and in an urge to keep some semblance of control, she drags her skirts up over her knees. It gives Sylvain a perfect view of where her stockings end, leaves very little more to the imagination.
Slowly, achingly slowly, Sylvain leans forward to press his lips to her leg. He starts at the side of her knee, just above her stockings, and Dorothea can’t help but gasp. She’s unbearably warm, sensitive all over - it’s somewhat of a relief to tip her head back against the cool mirror behind her as Sylvain presses his next kiss higher up her thigh.
“You want this.” He still sounds a little off-kilter, and Dorothea looks down at him. His ears are red, she notes with no small satisfaction.
“Is that so surprising? This isn’t our first time.”
“Never mind.” And to keep her from prying further, he leans in closer, bites gently at her smooth flesh. He knows she likes the feeling, knows where to keep the marks so her skirts will hide them, know exactly how hard to press with his teeth to make her sing.
She can feel she’s soaking by the time he reaches her core, and his soft laughter as he tugs her underwear down her thighs only confirms it. His hands brace her - one rests at the curve of her ass, and the other hikes her leg over his shoulder. It’s the only warning she gets before he dives in.
“Oh, shit!” It’s rare for Dorothea to swear, but she’s loose-limbed and loose-lipped tonight, and his tongue is unrelenting. She leans back on one hand, buries her other fingers in his hair just for something to hold onto. But Sylvain doesn’t need any direction. In fact, he’s wasting no time at all, intent on reaching the places within her that he knows will unravel her.
Sylvain shows no sign of stopping, and still, Dorothea can’t help but plead. “Please, Syl, please,” she hears herself beg nonsensically. He moans in response, and the feeling of it shoots through her like lightning. He moves one hand to tweak her clit as his tongue fucks deeper into her, and that’s all it takes to bring her over the edge.
She’s crying out, she knows, as she crashes into release. Her hips thrust helplessly against Sylvain’s face, but he doesn’t back off. Not until Dorothea’s toes curl from the stimulation and the pleasure slants into pain and she drags him off her. He whines as she pulls his hair, and the simple sound sends a lick of heat through her. There’s no way she’ll be satisfied with just one orgasm tonight.
As she comes down from her high, she looks at Sylvain - really looks at him. Takes in the flush of his face, the rise of his chest with every breath, the slick shine of her finish smeared across his chin.
He looks up at her, and their eyes meet. Dorothea feels molten, out of control. “Thea, please let me fuck you.”
She’s only just said yes, barely breathed the syllable out before he’s gotten to his feet, kissing her cheeks and throat as he presses his body to hers. There’s comfort, in being surrounded by him like this, in feeling the warm shape of his arousal pressed between her legs even through the layers of fabric they’re still wearing.
Layers that Sylvain is dealing with, quickly. He doesn’t bother taking off anything unessential. No, her underwear just gets pulled off the rest of the way, and his pants get pulled down just enough that his cock slips out, hard and hot.
“Do you need- are you ready?” It’s sweet of him to ask, but Dorothea doesn’t want sweet right now.
“I’ve been ready, Sylvain, honestly,” and she’s ready to scold him further, only he stops her by pressing into her just right, fucking in deep on the first stroke and burying his face in her shoulder. Sylvain sets a rapid pace, and Dorothea just clings to him as he finds that spot inside of her that sets her on fire. She might be the actress, but Sylvain is directing now. He spreads her legs further apart to make her whimper, pulls her dress down to suck on her nipple and make her scream. Each and every movement to build her pleasure back up, all while he chases his own. She’d never let him take such control if he didn’t know her so well, if she couldn’t trust so completely that every touch of his fingers, lips, cock would fill her with dizzy delight.
“Where do you want me to finish?” Sylvain asks between soft groans. The rhythm of his hips start to stutter, a telltale sign that he’s close. Dorothea imagines, for a moment, having him pull out and come all over himself. Considers dropping to her knees and letting him finish down her throat. But there’s something she wants above all that, and Sylvain will do it for her.
“In me. In me, I took my herb, just please.” He’s close enough that she can hear his breath come short when she speaks.
Then Sylvain wraps his arms around her, draws her in until their lips meet. It’s the first time he’s kissed her tonight, she realizes in a haze. She can taste herself on his tongue. His hips thrust into hers, and she cries out against his mouth as he builds up his pace again. It’s all she can do - let her voice, now soft and breathy, carry her passion, her desperation, as he drives into her.
And then he stills, coming deep inside her, and the feeling is enough to bring her over the edge again, tumbling into euphoria with Sylvain’s name on her lips.
---
“You’ve been smiling like an fool all night,” Dorothea chides later. They’d cleaned themselves up and gotten back to Dorothea’s quarters, at which point they’d swiftly gotten undressed again. Sylvain had taken her again on the floor, then in her bed, then fucked his spend back into her with his fingers. Now, finally, they’re both on the edge of sleep, but tonight has been different, and Dorothea needs to know why.
To his credit, he doesn’t think too long before responding. “You’ve needed me before. To let off steam, or as a distraction. But you just wanted me tonight.”
It’s horribly sweet. Dorothea can’t think of a way to prove it’s not true. So she just curls into him and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Don’t propose, please.”
Sylvain laughs, then leans in to kiss her soundly and sweetly. “I won’t,” he says, and makes it sound like a promise. “Not yet.”