(2) after and before.

[waywardious]

The post-performance bustle is always exceedingly pronounced on closing night. The dressing rooms reverberate with the chatter of the ballerinas and the loud shouting of the danseurs, trying to hear themselves above the rush of water and clothes. Claude has slipped relatively unseen through the commotion, narrowly avoiding Jules and managing to excuse himself when Marise makes a brave attempt at cornering him. He has no idea whether he’ll actually meet Vincent at all, on the street once more, but his entire system is overwrought from the emotional charge it required to dance like he did tonight. Watched, all over again, by a pair of non-judgmental eyes. The rest of the company may be headed for their scheduled parties, but he fully intends to go easy on himself tonight. Grant himself just a little elbowroom.

So, out of his costume and his makeup – tonight (at least) wearing a vest over his shirt, he thumps his brown top hat into position on his head and shrugs into his coat. Slides on a pair of kidskin gloves, but no scarf tonight, because April has brought along gentler winds and kinder temperatures.

Opening the heavy door leading out, right at the heels of the first corps girls, he feels the initial gusts of contentment seep into his system. He danced that variation better tonight than he has ever danced anything in his entire life; he doesn’t even care if his promotion remains obscured in the fogs of the future. He danced like Pavel taught him. Like Pavel inspired him to. All the while, someone watched him and Claude hopes to God that Vincent doesn’t decide to simply disappear back into the crowd.

Comments

[waywardious]

Vincent draws back and Claude lets him, lips burning in the wake of their brief connection. Watching the other man as he pulls the singlet over his head, his hair ruffled slightly when he emerges once more, he has to cool them down. His lips and himself, licking his bottom lip without much conscious thought. There's nothing but lines to find on Vincent, elongated and pronounced lines, the sharp jut of ribs and the curve of his shoulders. A thin, light spread of hair across his pecs, almost unnoticeable unless you're looking. And Claude's looking. Dear God, is he looking... His cock has now grown fully hard in the too-tight embrace of his breeches and he reaches down slowly, untying the waistband quickly and efficiently. Treats this particular garment with much greater care than the rest, seeing as the risk of his cock getting tangled in the fabric is very much real. Wriggling out of the breeches, they slide down his thighs, over his knees and he kicks them off the rest of the way, the relief stark. He only notices the change to his breathing when he returns his attention to Vincent, his chest heaving as if he'd been carrying stones. All this way. Maybe he has. In an altogether figurative sense.

Straightening up fully, Claude glances towards the sheepskins. Looks at Vincent again, trying to find the right words. He's currently thinking with his body, as he tends to do. His fingers tingling with the urge to touch, to feel the outline of Vincent's chest, feel the hills and the valleys, feel his nipples harden against Claude's palm. The need to venture further down and -- The heat is rising in his cheeks now and he moves over to the altar he's built in front of the fireplace. He might have been Vincent's idol first, but tonight Claude would really like to idolize him. There's certainly enough to admire.

The right words don't come to him, he's moved beyond them, so Claude just sits down on the sheepskins, leaving plenty of room for Vincent to join him. Should he want to. And Claude is counting on his desire at the moment. Is counting on him to follow in his own way, in his own time, but don't let his own time drag on forever. The head of Claude's cock is practically kissing his abdomen, he's that aroused.

[thecountofthree]

He can feel the way Claude’s watching him and as he looks up to meet his eyes, he’s met with the sight of his breeches, untied and well on their way down his hips.

For a long moment, it feels like he can’t breathe.

Though he’s been trying not to think about it too carefully (and failing, naturally, as is his way in these matters), Vincent’s definitely considered this more than once – how the bulge beneath Claude’s dancing garments has always seemed so very pronounced, almost sordidly so. While it started out as something very shocking and… overwhelming, he’s later come to associate the ballet and its well-endowed male silhouettes with a special sort of freedom. Something to look at, as if doing so were altogether common place. However, it’s seemed… rather obvious to him that Claude would have to be… well. He is, obviously. Eyes eating it up, his big, hardened cock, the spread of pubic hair running up to his navel, he feels his own body respond – a deep, heavy sensation of warmth, spreading through his abdomen, every last inch of him well and truly affected. He wants to… it’s…

Jaw setting, he rises from his seat as Claude settles down on the sheepskins. He does note how the other man leaves him room to join but even if he hadn’t, Vincent wouldn’t really have cared - all he can think is that were he to lie on the cold, hard floor, it wouldn’t deter him from getting his hands on that magnificent man. The underlying fear – the shame, the knowledge that he ought to feel humiliated by his own, despicable mind – is forced to the background by something much stronger, much hotter and more instinctual than anything he’s ever felt before. Closing the distance between them, he pauses only to untie his trousers and slide them down his hips, the material pooling around his feet as he steps out of them with smooth, fluid movements. He may have been clumsy and stiff throughout the evening but surely… surely, this is not the time to fight what’s already there. Clearly, this… whatever it is – clearly, it’s settled beneath his bones in a way that can’t be undone or ignored, even if everything else is uncharted territory. Very uncharted and oh God, he mustn't think about it.

Settling down carefully next to Claude, undoing his breeches singlehandedly and leaving them gaping around his hips, he ignores the chill of anxiety raking down his back and leans in again, pressing his lips against Claude’s with enough force to channel away most (if not all) of his nervous energy.

[waywardious]

When Vincent rises from the armchair, Claude recognises immediately that they've moved beyond concepts such as leading and following. Following the other man with his eyes as he moves to stand in front of him, discarding yet another layer (his breeches somehow only enhancing the long, beautifully rounded outline of his hard cock underneath), Claude feels the intimacy vividly. Theirs. They might not be touching yet, but he feels it and it makes his breathing catch in his throat. Vincent, undoing his breeches one-handedly and leaving the fabric gaping around the head of his cock which would undoubtedly prove a thing of beauty - had Claude been granted a chance to study it further, seats himself on the sheepskin stretched out next to Claude's half-sprawled figure. Leaves everything in this wholly disorderly state and leans in to capture his lips in another kiss. A new one, full of want and entitlement. Gone is the mask of insecurity. Just as Claude would expect, really.

Smiling, Claude parts his lips and all but shoves his tongue over the soft curve of Vincent's bottom lip. In between, too, coaxing the other man to come, making the advance smooth by running both hands down Vincent's sides and dragging him over on top of himself by the hips, rolling onto his back in one fluid motion to accommodate his weight. Vincent is light, no heaviness at all bearing down on top of him, but the length of his cock is palpable against Claude's thigh and he already feels himself drowning in it. This welcome presence. This.

Once he feels their bodies aligning, regaining a balance, he reaches up and runs his fingers through Vincent's hair. Raking his nails over his scalp, down his neck, flattening his palm over one perfectly arched shoulder, his tongue pushing into the heat and depth of Vincent's mouth with enough force to necessitate a response, he's sure. No, he's sure Vincent won't be late in reclaiming any lost territory. Or, more importantly, occupying new land.

[thecountofthree]

Claude pulls him down on top of him and it’s the best thing he’s ever experienced (sure to be topped by other things, yes, he’s got no doubts at all), the feel of his hard body stretched out beneath his own. In his dreams, he’s always wanted to… to take charge. Over this – this side of himself and to some extent, the man he’s been admiring from afar for so long, as he’s swept his heart with him both on stage and beyond the closing curtains. It’s an odd thing, realising that at least some aspect of his brain has always known. Despite his trepidation, it’s – he’s - always known.

Letting himself drown in Claude for real, pressing his tongue in between his lips and going with the pace, he takes his time to indulge. There’s no way back – instead, he’s got multiple paths forward, all of them worth exploring. Claude’s mouth is warm and tastes of the night they’ve both enjoyed, the warmth of his body translated effortlessly into the wetness of his mouth. Breathing in deeply, he pulls back just for a second, just to move his arm enough to entwine his fingers in Claude’s hair, once more tightening to a grip. Where as he’s been grasping at empty air all evening, suddenly his hand is full – and isn’t it just a miracle? Definitely feels like it.

Claude slides his hand down his neck and onto his shoulder, the touch making his skin break out in goose bumps despite the heat seemingly burning him up from the inside out. There’s a soft groan right at the back of his throat and he lets it out, shifting slightly on top of the other man. It doesn’t happen on purpose, really – the way he accidentally presses his hips downwards, Claude’s hard cock sliding up against his through the fabric of his breeches. The sensation is – is… Freezing, he draws away from the kiss only by an inch, lips hovering right above Claude’s, close enough to leave their breaths ghosting across each other’s mouths. A different sort of kiss. Then, he presses his hips downwards with a lot more intent, the feeling of Claude’s length rubbing up against his making his body positively ache for more.

[waywardious]

Starving might have been the most appropriate term to ascribe to Vincent, Claude realises as the other man kisses him, all tongue and wet intrusion, the associations leaving his cock throbbing from arousal. Then, Vincent thrusts his hips forward enough for his cock to slide along the length of Claude's own and the pleasure surges through him violently enough to knock all air out of his lungs. He's almost (almost) relieved when Vincent draws back and leaves his mouth free to gasp for breath. Gasp, gasp, gasp. They're staring at each other in a moment of waiting, where Vincent seems to struggle with the exact mechanisms, only to repeat the motion. But harder, much harder, the friction making Claude groan loudly, his head falling back onto the soft wool and hips bucking up to meet the pressure just right. Just right.

The breeches are in the way, though. They must go. Forcing himself to lift his head and press his face into the side of Vincent's neck, Claude lets one hand slip down between their bodies, wriggling enough to not get caught between the rise of rib cages or trapped in the fall of stomachs. There's nothing romantic about it, not in any traditional sense - how he shoves his hand, palm flat against Vincent's abdomen, beneath the already loosened waistband. His fingers brush over the head of Vincent's cock first and Claude proceeds with the proper carefulness. Soft fingers wrapping around the shaft, the upper part of it, as it is. It's long. Vincent's cock is... long. He hears himself utter something not too dissimilar to a whimper, his pelvis pressing up against the back of his own hand like an extension of the sound. He's so aroused, he can't remember when he last... when he...

A long, outdrawn jerk of his hand up Vincent's cock and he simply can't wait anymore. He's patient, but he's no saint. He's no statue made of wood. "Take them off, please," he begs, voice muffled and decidedly throaty.

[thecountofthree]

Claude sounds amazing, gasping against his neck. He’s losing his mind in all of this and it’s utter bliss, a way beyond his dark and dreary life that he’s never truly dared to hope that he’d find. Hips jerking forward as Claude meets his thrust, he’s already feeling the hindrance of his breeches when Claude pushes a hand down his stomach. And further. Breath leaving his throat like a moan this time, low and raspy, he keeps still for a second as Claude’s fingers close around the shaft of his cock. He’s got nothing to compare to, except for his own hand and that certainly can’t compare in any shape or form. Claude’s hand is steady still and so hot, almost overwhelmingly so, and instinctually he wants to thrust into his palm, to… to get more, much more.

Then, Claude’s words break through the haze of pleasure threatening to permanently cloud up his judgment. He’s speaking into his neck, basically, lips moving across his skin and it’s another sort of touch, yet another. He exhales shakily, drawing back enough to reach down with his other hand, fumbling with the hem for a second or two before figuring out the angle. With a sharp jerk, he pulls his breaches away from his hips, his cock springing free, head pressed up against his abdomen. Sitting back (Claude’s hand slipping away from his cock and what a terrible lack, what torture), he manages to get them off the rest of the way, completely unimpressed with his own athletics and very much beyond caring, too.

Refusing to allow his brain to catch up with him now, he leaves his breeches lying in a pile on the floor out of sight and shifts right back. Too caught up in his body, he’s almost shocked at the feel of Claude’s naked body against his bared legs and lower body, every sensation tripled in intensity and his cock positively hard as a rock. God. It’s… It’s… Gaze searching out Claude’s, he pauses, arms keeping his body hovering at least some inches above his. Enough to leave the head of Vincent’s cock brushing against his, a mere implication of what it could be. What it’s going to be.

“Is this…” He pauses. Reaches up with one hand slowly, fingers slipping into Claude’s hair once more. “Is this right?”

[waywardious]

Right? The question almost escapes him, focused as he is on the teasing proximity of Vincent's front, close enough to emit warmth and strength and promise (their cocks bumping almost playfully - Claude's muscles trembling in response), but Claude does see Vincent's lips move and the sound follows closely after. He smiles as Vincent's fingers dig into his hair again, angling his head into the caress, lifting his chin enough to let his lips brush lightly along that sinful jawline. Not until he reaches the other man's ear does he reply. "It's perfect," he says. Breathes heavily over Vincent's earlobe, his nose burying into soft strands of hair coloured a deep red by the fire. "You're perfect, Vincent."

It's more than a compliment, of course. Claude isn't cheap with his compliments ever - he'll give praise when praise is due and he is so very good at seeing the positives, yes? Telling Vincent that he's perfect goes beyond niceties, however. It's not merely for the sake of appearances, because the man certainly has appearances covered, look at him. Claude takes a deep breath and shifts beneath Vincent's body, pushing his cock up along the beautifully long length of Vincent's, the pleasure of the sudden slide of skin against skin almost maddening. He closes his eyes. Rests his forehead against Vincent's cheek as he reaches down between them again and wraps his fingers around both their girths this time. He's got big hands, but no piano-fingers like Vincent. He can't close the circle completely, but he doesn't need perfection anyway. Not here. Not with Vincent halfway pulling him along and halfway dragging the both of them to these momentary halts that are good for contemplation. Consideration. The important things.

With a slow, steady, firm rhythm, he starts stroking their cocks, together. Pushing in against his own fingers, in against the underside of Vincent's cock at the same time, the backside of his eyelids is a soothing brown that goes well with Vincent's scent in his nostrils - a heated blend of sweat and need. Want. If Vincent wants to take over, he will be Claude's guest, but as any good host he figured a tour of the premises will serve as a safe start.

[thecountofthree]

Claude’s voice comes last – following the touch of his lips against his jaw, his hair soft against Vincent’s brow and his breath hot. Eyes falling shut, Vincent feels himself blush harder than ever, his hand tightening slightly in Claude’s hair. Perfect, he says. Perfect. The word reverberates inside his mind, very much a singularity amidst what feels like heaps of disapproval and disregard. He never complains because life is what it is – but with Claude lying right here, presenting such a different view, such a fantastical one, he can’t help the sense of overwhelming relief. If someone like this would… then surely, he’s not quite as wrong as his daily existence might imply. Surely not.

About to lean down and kiss him once more, having already realised that he’ll never get enough of Claude’s amazing mouth, he pauses at the feel of Claude’s hand slipping down between them. Heading in just the right direction too, though if he really… Christ, he can’t… Eyes snapping open, he gasps out loud as Claude wraps his fingers around his cock, realising very late indeed that he’s… grasping the both of them. Leaving them rubbing against each other, an almost maddeningly soft slide of skin on skin. His fingers feel so good, his palm hot and tight… It’s a wholly instinctual thing (natural), falling into step with him and Vincent’s rocking his hips back and forth before he knows it, thrusting into his grip.

“Oh – oh, Claude, that’s perfect, that’s so… good…” His words are broken up by his shattered breathing, eyes still closed and sweat forming on his brow. The heat from the fire only adds to the overall sensation of nearness, of being so very close to someone else, to this particular man. Of being encased. Pleasure rushing down the shaft of his cock with every move of his lower body, he reaches down blindly and rests his palm over Claude’s hand, a mirror of his actions earlier when Vincent’s hands couldn’t quite manage his shirt or the consequences. This time, however, there’s no insecurity left – just that odd sort of assertiveness again, the unconscious realisation that this is right, this is exactly right and he knows what to do to make it work.

[waywardious]

Anatomy is a strange thing, indeed. Claude knows his body's workings better than he knows any other aspect of his own self, but any addition of limbs (like now as Vincent lies sprawled out on top of him, all weight and pressure and heat against his skin from head to where their feet are grazing as well, Claude's thighs spread and trembling around Vincent's hips) requires double work to uphold the necessary smoothness. Halfway preoccupied with the sound of Vincent's mumbling close to his ear, Claude shifts beneath him to allow the other man's hand better access to the destination he's strongly expecting it's headed towards. He's already breaking out in a slight sweat, the fire blazing within the constraints of the brick wall and his arousal seeming no less all-consuming. At the feel of Vincent's palm sliding over the length of his fingers and the rise of his knuckles, he manages a comfortable sigh, withdrawing his hand without a second thought. He knows what Vincent's fingers look like, after all. They're better suited to the task than -- than --

Reaching up with both hands now, he buries all ten of his own fingers into Vincent's hair, gently tugging his head into an angle that'll allow Claude to kiss him, his lips feeling smooth and hot and slick when Claude claims them back. It's a blind journey, the way his mouth slides over the contours of Vincent's face, their noses bumping and their breaths mingling like melting fog. The groan isn't even a conscious sound. It escapes him before he has realised that it was waiting in the wings of his throat, perhaps all along. When he rocks his pelvis up against the underside of Vincent's cock again, into the grip of Vincent's fingers, the words finally come. Naturally. As if the way Vincent talks is addressing something deep within, luring it out at long last. "I can feel you," he mutters, drawing back from the kiss only long enough not to get the clarity drowned in their mixing saliva and the dark, dark depths along Vincent's tongue. Pushes up just a tiny bit harder against Vincent's body, his muscles working almost angrily to support the motion. "I can feel you," pant, pant, pant, "you feel like Heaven on Earth, like this..."

And one hand slips down to Vincent's shoulder once more, ventures down his chest with no final goal beyond the exploration itself, fingertips ghosting over the outline of muscle mass, over one nipple and lingering there for the sheer pleasure of it. Vincent's, yes. As well as his own.

[thecountofthree]

Vincent may feel like Heaven – and what a metaphor, so fitting of this thing between them despite what anyone else would think – but Claude sounds like it, too, his voice broken up by pants, dark and heavy against his lips. Everything is a blend of sensations, of Claude’s hands in his hair, a grip, steadiness. His body, strong and hard beneath his own. And the feel of Claude’s magnificent cock sliding back and forth against his palm and the underside of his shaft, wetness coating his fingers and making the movements slippery. God. God. How can any of this be wrong, how can it possibly be anything other than perfectly right, exactly as it ought to be? Pleasure shooting through his crotch and lower body as he follows Claude’s movements, he leans down to recapture his lips, pausing only to breathe. To gasp, rather, like a man close to drowning, except like this the only true fear is loss - loss of the element Claude’s helping him claim, finally, after all too many years.

“You’re amazing.” His French is reduced to a bunch of syllables thrown together, his lips moving against Claude’s, tongue drawing wet patterns against his mouth. “Claude. You’re better than anything else, the absolute best.” There’s a tremble in his voice as Claude fingers his nipple into hardness, his body almost overly sensitive from arousal. He can feel it building now, in his groin and further down – the edge waiting for him not too many more minutes ahead, waiting for him to throw himself right off it in a way he never has before. There’s something about Claude, about lying here with him and pleasuring him with his own, quiet desperation – it’s making him believe that maybe, just maybe, rather than crushing himself when everything’s said and done, he might possibly take flight instead.

Keeping his hand as steady as he can, fingers locked around their cocks and managing the whole, combined girth only just, he draws away from the kiss, feeling strangely oversaturated. His world is getting steadfastly narrower, body working against his mind to reach its goal. But oh, how he’d like to prolong it – to make this last all night and maybe all day, too. If he thinks about it too much, however, he’ll have to think about the end and he couldn’t possibly, not now. There’s nothing there to pursue. Where as here with Claude…

Everything’s within reach.

[waywardious]

The pace picks up, from the desperation in Vincent's voice as he speaks, directly into Claude's mouth, sounds reverberating between his parted lips, to the rhythm with which they are pushing up against each other, Vincent's fingers a strong and slick pressure around his entire length, the harder he thrusts upwards. Claude moans loudly, eating up the tail-end of Vincent's words and putting them away for sometime later when they will mean so much more. His balls feel heavy and tight at this point and although he's not quite at his breaking point yet, he's well on his way and he can tell, can feel that Vincent has broken into the first few steps of a spurt already, steps ahead. Drawing back, their lips parting hotly (wetly) and his hips pulling out of Vincent's grip reluctantly, regretfully, he stares at the huge expanses of the other man's face, features a blur of shade and proximity. Led by his hand on Vincent's chest, he slides his left arm around the narrowest range of hipbone, around the paper-thin curve of Vincent's waist and grabs hold, his fingers in his hair only tightening more, perhaps painfully so, but the stability is essential. Besides, although he's by no means a cruel lover, Claude shan't deny that he may find the thought of Vincent whimpering absolutely intoxicating...

"Don't move," he instructs, holding his breath as he flips them around, rolling Vincent's smoothly onto his back with the ease born of a lifetime throwing around ballerinas certainly twice his size, but double his mass and height is only an issue, if you are not rightly balanced. Now leaning in over Vincent rather than the other way around, careful to keep his weight on his knees so that he won't be crushing anything vital beneath a slipping hip or a wayward elbow, Claude rests himself on one flattened palm against the sheepskins as they lie all bundled up next to Vincent's face. Bends his neck to lick a long, experimental trail from Vincent's ear and down over his collarbone, protruding something horrible, like see-through calligraphy. From there on, the nearest nipple is only a single push downwards and Claude closes his lips over it, the heated nub rising under the tip of his tongue like a well-trained soldier. He keeps the suction lazy, attention shifting to the soft skin on Vincent's inner thigh that he's mapping out, palm sliding upwards and fingers fully splayed, wanting all of it. All the sensations, everything there is to feel. Everything Vincent will give him.

[thecountofthree]

Everything changes, the world going topsy-turvy as Claude flips them around, pulling at his hair in the process with enough force to make him gasp. If it’s a whimper, he doesn’t particularly want to admit to it, though his voice is certainly high-pitched enough to merit the accusation. His hand falls away to grip Claude’s shoulder instead, wholly instinctual, his body following Claude’s lead with an obedience owing not only to their differences in strength. After all, one thing he’s always been told: Vincent is not the obedient type. It takes more; such as the way Claude keeps steering them about in the safest way imaginable, as mindful as he’s attractive. Leaning back his head, the sheepskins soft and pleasant, Vincent leaves his hand trailing down Claude’s broad shoulders instead, fingers digging into his back, drawing mindless, circular patterns without beginnings or ends.

“Yes.” He almost can’t recognise himself, his voice harsh and throaty, every sound infused by the pleasure building in his body as Claude licks his way down his body. “Oh, please… please don’t stop, you mustn’t…” His words degenerate into a moan, long and basic, as Claude tongues his nipple into hardness, pleasure rippling down his upper body. Without quite knowing why, he entangles one hand in Claude’s hair, a grip this time with enough force to leave the strands straining between his fingers. Holding on for dear life, one might say. His hand’s warm and heavy against his thigh and he can’t stop himself from shifting upwards, trying in vain to regain some sort of stimulation against his cock. He should probably be embarrassed by his own desperation but then again, why start now? Why indeed?

Hand trailing down the side of Claude’s face slowly, fingers splayed out against his cheek, he opens his eyes and looks down. The sight of him leaning in over his body, all golden-tinted skin and muscles shining from sweat – it’s better than anything he’s ever imagined. Awake or asleep. Even the dreams Claude keeps providing him with from performance to performance… they’ve always been restricted by Vincent’s own limitations, haven’t they? For once, reality simply stands without comparison.

[waywardious]

Yes, Vincent says, whimpers - although it's blurring into a plea, but Claude will take it anyway. The sound of his voice an echo of simple, unadulterated want and Claude's cock responding by positively leaking all over the sheepskins. He'll need to slip his laundry lady some extra, to get rid of such revealing stains from already difficult material, but the money will be well spent, if you ask him. Sucking in a sharp breath, he leaves the other man's nipple be, because there's more important territory waiting ahead, further down and the pace is catching up with his own system now, too. Thus, he pushes himself slowly down Vincent's front, one hand keeping him pinned at the midriff and the other wandering through an angelically blonde forest of pubic hair, closing tightly around the base of Vincent's cock. When he turns his head to the side, he's staring down Vincent's flat stomach, directly at an Eiffel Tower-esque beauty of length and steely strength, the foreskin fully retracted. He doesn't hear himself curse under his breath, all he can truly focus on is his own need to taste it. Feel the hardness of it, get acquainted with the flavour, the texture of his fluids and... With one last, hard shove (all but crushing Vincent's frame into their bedding), Claude moves on eye level with the entire thing. Slowly releases his grasp, flexing his wrist enough to stroke the length, substituting his palm with his lips once the head bursts through the tight hole of his curling fingers. It's throbbing warmly against his tongue as he licks softly over the exposed skin, tip slipping into the slit and following the curve underneath the head, continuing forever and ever. He hollows his cheeks, breathes through his nose and sucks in another inch, the feeling of penetration amazing.

Fluting has always been a weirdly ambivalent practice to him. It's faster and less laborious than buggering, but perhaps for those very reasons, it has also always seemed more mechanic to him. Heartless, somehow. Claude might simply have spent too many years on his knees in front of Ludovic and his harem, but it took Pavel to truly teach him the wonders of it. Lips and tongue and the tight constriction of throat. He groans. Presses his tongue up against the pronounced string running along the underside of Vincent's cock, knowing just how the pressure will make everything burst.

[thecountofthree]

When Claude shifts further down his body, his hand falls away towards the floor, the sheepskin warm underneath his fingers. Relaxing back as much as possible, he returns his gaze to the ceiling, the darkness stretched out thinly above him by the multiple colours of the lamps and the flames in the fireplace. They’re alive, the shadows, dancing before his eyes. Much like Claude on stage, much like his mouth and tongue mapping out his body. When his hand closes around his cock, Vincent very nearly bucks upwards, remaining in place mostly due to Claude’s palmed pressed against his stomach. Instead, there’s just a small jerk of his hips, a loud exhalation of breath. God. What is he… why…

He understands only when something very hot and very wet pushes over the head of his cock, a pleasure unlike anything he’s ever felt whilst masturbating making his eyes widen. He usually just finishes himself off as fast as possible, the climax something to be overcome rather than enjoyed. But now… like this… Back arching upwards, he finds himself almost desperate for more, ready to beg and plead without restraint if only if would make the other man… give him…

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, Claude I… I can’t, I’ll…” The words positively tumble out of him, completely unrestricted as Claude takes him in, his lips closed around the width of his cock. His mouth is so impossibly hot and tight, his tongue pressing in on something completely amazing and really, he can’t be expected to maintain himself in any fashion now, surely not! Hands grasping for something, anything, he goes straight for Claude’s hair once more, all ten, long fingers digging in and holding on. There’s pressure building up in his balls quickly now and he can’t even begin to hold back, can’t possibly consider whether keeping himself in check might be more prudent, less rude, whatever. He can’t. Instead, he lets it wash over him after another few, constricted breaths, climax eating him up from the inside and out.

[waywardious]

He shouldn't be surprised. By quite a lot of it, of course, but by the shift of language especially. Shouldn't be surprised that Vincent can wield the coarse dictionary of a sailor in a situation that calls for it, but it amuses him even so. Under different circumstances, he might have chuckled, but currently Claude finds himself too preoccupied with keeping his lips wrapped tightly around Vincent's cock while the other man jerks up against his mouth, the urgency and the evident tightening of his balls preparing Claude for what's coming like a courteous warning. No warning needed, however - not with him pushing an additional inch further down over his pulsating length, the head of Vincent's cock sliding along the back of his throat (though, not far enough back to make him gag) and making him close his eyes in enjoyment. There'll be semen pouring into his mouth in a second or two, but the first time is always a fast affair and he doesn't doubt Vincent's virility will leave him starving for more, before Claude even stands a true chance of complaining. Should he want to. He doesn't.

And, a second later, Vincent does spend himself, erupting all over Claude's tongue like a spurting volcano and his semen is hot and thick and burning enough to permit the comparison. Men all taste differently and so do their fluids, Vincent's holding a sharp edge beneath the rounded quality of it. Claude relaxes his throat with relative practice, swallows the entire load and waits for the first bouts of muscle spasms to subside before drawing back, moving into a seated position with his arse on his heels and his palms resting flatly against his own thighs, framing in the very impressive hardness of his cock. It's almost painful. Almost.

Because Vincent does look very, very beautiful this way.

[thecountofthree]

When he spends himself in Claude’s mouth, Vincent cries out, his voice echoing off the bare walls around them. Hands clenched almost convulsively in Claude’s hair, he thrusts upwards a couple of times as Claude draws away. He’d feel bereft at the loss of heat and in a way, he does - but truthfully, his cock feels so oversensitive now, he almost can’t bear the thought of anymore stimulation. Gasping for air, he stares upwards blankly, chest heaving and his arms falling down limply by his sides, wrists seemingly boneless. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Can’t. Speaking involves thinking and thinking isn’t something he’d like to do now, preferably not ever. Is it possible to just. Engage in all manners of sex with Claude for the rest of eternity and forget the rest?

God knows it should be.

Swallowing, he finally sits up, resting his weight on his elbows. Claude’s looking at him, his cock exactly as hard and impressive as you’d expect and though Vincent’s body can’t currently perform beyond a limp muscle spasm or two, his eyes are already more than prepared to eat him up. Holding out one arm very lazily, he beckons to the other man, a loose, unguarded wave of his hand. “Come here,” he says, somewhat surprised at the hoarse quality of his voice. Even more surprised, though, at his own initiative – he’s never actually… but surely, it can’t be so difficult, it’s a cock (and how!), it needs… to go somewhere. Yes. Face flushing again, he runs his fingers through his hair, long strands settling back against his head. Out of his face, as it were.

Maybe it’s the complete relaxation of his body melting into his mind, but there’s not a grain of nervousness or anxiety left – just the knowledge that in a few seconds, he’ll be sucking Claude’s cock down his throat as far as it’ll go and even if it chokes him, he’ll love every single minute of it.

[waywardious]

While Vincent recovers, the sound of his outcry is slow to fade between the bare walls of the loft and Claude can vividly imagine the good Monsieur Samson downstairs wake up, cursing at the return of the upstairs antics, only to realise that his daughter has once more managed to sneak out from right underneath his nose. Oh, the trials of life... Bonelessly, Vincent gestures for him to approach, asks him to come closer and you won't see Claude need to be told twice. The ghostly presence of Vincent's cock on his tongue, the heavy taste of him still filling his mouth, has left his own cock in a sorry state of neglect and if the other man hadn't offered his assistance so very freely, Claude would have had to find the proper method of persuasion, wouldn't he? Steadying the length of his cock with one hand, so it won't bob uncontrollably - awkward and uncomfortable as it would be, he all but crawls over to Vincent. Shifts on his knees along the long limbs (lines) of the other man's body, all the way up to his head. His knees are still bruised and sore from his Bronze Idol variation, but you get used to the pain when you've endured it long enough. You learn to ignore it, especially when something just as rewarding as spotlight is beckoning.

"You should come here," he says, smiling. Halts himself with Vincent's face only a thigh-slide away from his crotch, reaching down with his free hand to slip his fingers along the slope of Vincent's cheek, into his hair to keep the strands away from his face, urging him up. Urging him closer. Like this, Claude's blocking out the soft, orange glow from the fireplace, Vincent's features cast into a grey shade that only his eyes emerge from, victoriously. Licking his lips that feel suddenly dry, Claude shifts a bit. Impatiently. His otherwise perfected body control finally slipping.

Look at him. Just... Look at him.

[thecountofthree]

Claude obliges. As he half-way crawls towards him, Vincent can’t help but notice the remnants of bruising near his knees, dark splotches amidst the shadows crawling all over his skin. During performances, of course everything’s blotted out by golden dust, by the stage lights and the glamour. Suffering little beyond a broken nail now and then, he can’t help but feel all the more impressed. Might have to blame it mostly on his cock, though – it’s absolutely gorgeous, hard and thick and very much… ready. For action. Allowing Claude to urge him closer, his hand in his hair gentle but present, Vincent nuzzles up against his inner thigh, nose and lips gliding over hot, warm skin. The scent of arousal and sweat immediately settles in his nostrils, going straight to his still-flaccid cock and making his lower body feel a lot less numb and tired. Mmm. He’s definitely a lucky man tonight, isn’t he? Even when he sat down in his seat on the first row, he really had no idea how much.

Sliding closer yet and hifting onto his side for a better angle, he bumps his nose lightly against Claude’s cock, just the very tip of it. Pausing, he raises his chin just so, enough for his lips to press in lightly against the bared head in a mimicry of a kiss. It’s a touch, most of all. And he lets it linger as he runs one hand over Claude’s bare thigh, fingers brushing over tight muscles and heated skin before closing around the base of his cock right above the other man's hand. It’s a light grip, borderline experimental. He’s new to this and as such, isn’t it natural enough to take his sweet, sweet time?

Breathing out slowly, he parts his lips and licks a long, wet trail around the glistening head. Claude tastes a lot like heat, musky and heavy on his tongue and it’s a fantastic taste. Nothing like he’d imagined, true, but then – how do you realistically envision the taste of another man in your mouth, of someone’s most intimate secrets? Hand tightening a fraction around the base, he opens his mouth more fully. One slight push forward and he’s easing Claude’s cock onto his tongue, his jaw straining to accommodate its girth. Teeth, he thinks with a sudden abruptness. Blinking, he considers the problem for all of two seconds before coming up with the instinctual solution – covering his teeth with his lips. Ugh, that’s not exactly comfortable but then, neither is a row of teeth scraping over the shaft of your cock. Getting comfortable once more, he takes a second to just breathe, the head of Claude’s cock locked between his lips, his tongue pressed up firmly against its underside.

[waywardious]

In accommodation, Vincent shifts onto his side and eases his way up Claude's thighs, trailing the tip of his nose and the softness of his lips along the taut muscles running up his inner thigh. It's completely instinctual, an automatic reaction - how Claude's eyes flutter shut, obscuring the view of Vincent's hand following the same trail his head is paving, as if it would be just one stimulant too much. Sight. Instead, behind his closed eyelids, it's all reduced to touch and sensation. The pure feeling of Vincent's fingers closing around the base of his cock, brushing over his own fingers in the process. Followed closely by a light, but long lick around the curve of the head of his cock and Claude releases his own hold, steadying himself against the floor with his free hand, the one not preoccupied currently with digging into Vincent's hair in an effort to -- not thrust forward, not force himself onwards. He hears himself breathe out heavily, slowly, like he would do while balancing himself throughout a particularly tricky dévellopé... The heat and the slickness is maddening. In many respects, sex and dancing are rather similar. The act feels as if it might kill you, but the end result ensures that you'll suffer the same torture again and again - and at some point, you come to realise that (more than anything else) it's the act itself which has become your addiction.

When Vincent sucks Claude's cock further into his mouth, his tongue pressing up along the underside and his muscles straining to push back, Claude finally opens his eyes once more, facing the visual of Vincent's head in his lap, his lips positively locked around the girth of his cock. This time he does add a certain pressure as he tightens his fingers in the other man's hair. "I want to take your mouth, Vincent," he says, mutters mostly, breathlessly and all gutturals, "I want to shove myself down your throat. Fuck, it feels so good. You feel so... good."

Vulgar language is really only pleasing (and only acceptable) without matching intent, if you ask Claude. However much the thought and the voicing of the thought is pleasing - imagining his cock rammed down Vincent's throat to the very base, the road there goes through Vincent in every conceivable way. Claude isn't like Ludovic or, really, many of the men he's met in the milieu in Marais. Just the thought of forcing himself on another person, on a lover of all things... It makes him sick. To him, physicality is about control and choice. Carefulness. Carefulness above all else. Still, the words sound enticing and although body language might be his main means of expression, sound travels far and wide.

A slight shift to take the worst weight off his heels, the motion travelling forward as well, leaving him thrusting (slowly, gently) against the tightness of Vincent's lips and the touch of his tongue.

[thecountofthree]

Oh, Christ. Vincent shudders, his mouth completely full and Claude’s voice filling his mind, in turn. Eyes fluttering shut, he runs his palm up and down the shaft a few times, strokes long and slow. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than someone physically, literally, ramming their cock down his throat – not just for him, mind, but imagine what a bad result they’d get. Him choking on the whole thing and them getting nothing for his troubles. But the words themselves sure sound like heaven. With his orgasm still lingering in every limb, he’s feeling awfully relaxed about the whole ordeal, really – confident, too, in a way that feels equal parts natural and amazing. When has he last felt truly confident – truly – about anything? Clearly, this is something he’s meant to do. Sucking Claude’s beautiful cock down his throat.

Deciding that trying can’t hurt, Vincent takes a deep breath through his nose and starts taking in Claude’s cock inch by inch, feeling the way his mouth and jaw strain against the intrusion. Feeling Claude thrust against his mouth just a little bit and going along with the movement, he lets himself get penetrated, Claude’s cock slipping over his tongue and past his palate. Amusingly enough, the taste of him changes along the way – the salty taste of sweat and arousal intensifying along with the feel of hard, heated flesh filling his mouth to the brim. Then, quite suddenly, his body simply stops – ceases the movement, ceases breathing, everything. Before he can truly register it, his eyes start watering up as his throat closes, his body basically choking on his new, favourite dish.

Well, then.

There are two solutions. Spit it out – or get used to it. Seeing as Vincent’s got no intentions of letting go of his prize anytime soon, he instead pulls back very, very slowly, just enough to take the pressure off his throat. The head of Claude’s cock feels immense, pushing up against the back of his mouth and he can’t help it – he moans around its length, a deep, hoarse sound of pleasure and lets it go right back down, ignoring his protesting body because God, this is too good for hesitation. It’s. Too. Good.

[waywardious]

Watching Vincent slowly sink down over his cock, mouth gaping wide and lips forming the most beautiful circle Claude currently remembers ever having seen, he thinks back on the first time he sucked cock himself. How old was he? Fifteen? Sixteen? Oh, he wasn't nearly as good about it as Vincent is now either, drawing back slowly when his eyes start to water from the sheer depth of it. Antonin got showered in spit and musky breathing while Claude coughed his trachea into compliance and it really took them a few tries to figure out the mechanics. God knows how long to perfect them. It's been a long time since then...

And even with tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, Vincent soldiers on, penetrating himself on Claude's cock all over again, perhaps by sheer force of will, but certainly... moaning the entire way. Claude curses, loudly this time, knuckles going white where he's keeping himself in position with his hand disappearing amongst the coarse hairs of the sheepskins. Tentatively, he repeats the motion of his hips, pushing forward slowly. Surely. Surely. Vincent's enjoyment is vibrating heavily all around the head of his cock and the pleasure is immense. Heaving a harsh breath through gritted teeth, he hardly even notices how his fingers in Vincent's hair have tightened, keeping his head in place. Rather, his focus is on the movement itself, pushing forward, pushing forward -- It's so tight that it's almost unbearable, almost. So good, go good.

What he wants to tell Vincent is how he's free to draw back whenever. How Claude doesn't want to make it uncomfortable for him, doesn't want to pressure him - yet, what he does say is an unguarded flow of don't stop, just take it, please, take all of it and he's not even halfway as ashamed of himself as he feels he ought to be. Not when his balls are tightening up this fast.

[thecountofthree]

Claude takes the opportunity to shove his cock even further down Vincent’s throat – a very slight push, nothing rude or overwhelming but enough to make Vincent’s breath catch as he fights for another gulp of air, his mouth and throat almost utterly blocked out. Oh, but he’s got a tight grip on his hair, doesn’t he? Just a little bit rough, a little bit less considerate and isn’t that just a pleasure worth having all on its own? Taking in another inch, he only just stops himself from gagging, keeping still for half a second before pulling back once again, the length of Claude’s cock sliding out between his lips. He doesn’t let him go completely, though – doesn’t want to, not now when he’s finally got him. Instead, he steels himself for his own, physical response and swallows him down as far as he can, the base of his cock only inches away from his nose. Gods. It’s… oh.

His cock is waking up again between his legs, a dull throbbing along the shaft and in his groin. He shifts slightly. It’s hard, completely so, the head pressed against his stomach. A rush of air leaving his lungs through his nose, he goes with the most instinctual response he can manage – and sets a pace with his mouth, rocking his head back and forth in a rather lewd imitation of, well. Intercourse, supposedly. Some day, he may just get the chance to polish his terminology. Some day. He can’t quite help it, though – with his free hand, he strokes himself slowly, just a bit hesitantly. It may be ridiculous, seeing as he’s currently busy taking a relative stranger’s cock down his throat but all the same, there’s something very… personal about masturbation. Something he’s always associated with guilt and shame, his dirty body and mind working against him.

Right now, however, he’s so hard that doing nothing at all would be distracting. And with Claude’s cock sliding back and forth between his lips like this, with those wonderful sounds he makes, distractions simply won’t be tolerated. All of it – regret, restraint, anger – he’ll be saving that. For when the fire no longer burns and the shadows return to their usual state of eating him up from the inside.

[waywardious]

Perhaps faster than Claude would have expected (his stamina almost as well-developed in private as it has been over time in more official settings), Vincent strikes a rhythm with him - an even, deep, unyielding pace that leaves him to gasp for his breath, more loudly and more harshly than Vincent himself even as the other man repeatedly only just barely manages not to choke on the impressive amounts of cock he's sucking down his throat and without much prompting from Claude at all. Claude leans in over him, buries Vincent's head in shade, darkening his already undefinable shade of brownish hair, his hips working forward in little trembling thrusts to uphold the friction. The suction. Every single sensation... Fingers curling and uncurling along the curve of Vincent's skull, Claude doesn't even attempt to hold back while his climax builds. It builds like a stark muscle spasm along the already taut muscles of his inner thighs, up between his legs, to his balls and travelling up the entire length of his shaft. "You're..." he begins, groans, desperately clinging to the side of Vincent's face with one sweaty palm. "You're going to... I'm..." And then he simply can't process the words anymore, pleasure exploding throughout his entire lower body and his pelvis pressing forward as if it were living a life of its own. Outside of his control. Moaning, Claude spends himself in an endless cascade of long, hard spurts down Vincent's throat, eyes fluttering shut and world narrowed to nothing beyond that. The darkness and the pulsations and the intensity. The sheer intimacy of it all.

Only slowly, he regains his senses. Every exhalation eating away at the inhalation that follows, he lets his body stabilise itself in the buzzing wake of his orgasm, suddenly realising that the blood flow to his legs has been cut off and that every part of him suddenly aches, the culmination of his sexual desires having opened up for the post-performance flood of physical reactions. Doubled, too. The tiredness. The discomfort. However, the true wonder of sex, of course, is how none of it matters, not in comparison.

Thus, he rather unceremoniously slides down on his butt, gingerly beginning to extract his legs from their imprisonment beneath his own weight. Casts a long, lazy glance in Vincent's general direction.

[thecountofthree]

As he’s been riding on instinct the entire time, Vincent does in some way note the way Claude’s slowly ascents from pleasure to pure, sexual gratification. There’s something about the way he pushes forward into his mouth, something about the way his muscles tighten and his breathing gets steadfastly more desperate… yes. The signs are there. But it does shake him out of his post-orgasmic haze, the way it feels when Claude quite simply spends himself down his throat, his cock going down that last, crucial inch. He can’t gasp – he can’t breathe, can’t moan, can’t do anything besides swallow for all that he’s worth, all the while wondering what it would have tasted like on the back of his tongue. As it is, he mostly gets the texture - thick, heavy, slick. It goes down easily enough, much easier than the girth of Claude’s cock, his jaw aching from the strain of taking it in, his lips almost numb. Pulling back gingerly, he feels oddly empty as he wipes a hand across his mouth, tongue wetting his lips almost subconsciously. Christ. Christ. Between his legs, his own cock is as hard as before, wetness dripping from its tip. His hand has stilled, however, every part of his body equally breathless.

He never thought… he’s often imagined himself doing this, taking another man’s cock. Licking it all up, so to speak. But he’s never thought that he’d actually… Face heating up, the aftermath threatening to crash over him all at once, he looks down at nothing, the sheepskins taking up his field of vision with an almost calming neutrality. His heart is beating too fast, however, because all the white can’t mask the taste of skin and arousal still coating the inside of his mouth. As it will for many, many nights to come. He’s aware of Claude looking at him, collapsing in a not quite dignified heap of (beautiful, amazing) limbs. Vincent wants nothing more than to simply… close the distance once more, maybe ask for the chance to give it another try, maybe simply attempt it…

It’s like two, separate parts fighting for dominance inside of him – and the worst part is, he knows with absolute certainty which one he’s rooting for.

[waywardious]

Seated more comfortably now (though, never as comfortably as having your cock sucked, of course), Claude observes Vincent in silence for a long moment, letting the inevitable drowsiness settle in his entire system. His muscles feel like jelly and he's not certain he'd trust his legs to carry his weight, were he to stand up. Thus, he doesn't. He lies down on his side, facing Vincent completely and opening up his arms slowly, slowly. The man looks desperate, more than anything. Desperate to run away from the reality of what they've just done and desperate to do it all over again, if one is to judge by the hardness of his cock, a long and by all definitions incredibly beautiful rise over pelvis and abdomen. Claude follows its lines with his eyes, the length and the spread of darker blues and purples beneath the sweaty skin where veins are running along the shaft. Yes, beautiful...

Waving one hand without too much insistence, he lets his head fall back onto the sheepskins, the hairs tickling the left side of his face gently, like a caress. A deep breath and he speaks, softly: "Come here." It's not an order. It's not much of anything, truly, because Claude feels completely worn out and he can't remember when the aftermath was this welcome last. This good. Vincent does something to him and it's quite spectacular, admiration and flowers aside. And, if nothing else, Claude has always been a man of the spectacular, it's the world he lives in, isn't it?

Currently, though, Vincent is staring emptily down at the mess they've made of everything around them, perhaps especially in the figurative sense. Claude has seen it before. This post-coital regret. The doubts and the guilt. Some men are simply more prone to it than others, Claude (for example) has never been one to nurture it, not really. Even as he has had as much to lose as anyone, he's never regretted a single cock sucked, a single arse buggered, a single man loved. Vincent, it seems, might be of a different mould. Might live in a milieu where -- Well. Don't they all? Others just placed further from the centre of it than the unfortunate majority.