Claude Laurent Bérubé (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
waywardious) wrote2015-11-23 08:52 pm
waywardious) wrote2015-11-23 08:52 pm
Entry tags:
(2) after and before.
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.
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Slowly, he parts his lips. Cocks his head for a better angle and runs his tongue over the other man's bottom lip, the sharp line of it, as if drawn by quill. Dear God, he doesn't want to scare Vincent off now, not now with his proximity a very efficient shield indeed against... all of it. All that came before this moment. A breathless groan and he manages not to just push past his lips, instead focusing on raising one hand and running his fingers experimentally up the side of his neck, following the jutting edge of jaw into the soft strands of hair at the nape. He feels good. He feels good and soft and hard and strong. In every measure that matters.
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When Claude pushes his tongue against his lips, it takes him at least a second (more possibly three) to understand what’s happening. He’s never – not the touch of someone else’s tongue and it’s so good, like another barrier of intimacy, broken. Following the other man’s lead, Vincent parts his lips as well, breathing in harshly and exhaling before pressing his tongue lightly against Claude’s. Just the very tip of it, just… but oh. Oh. Eyes falling shut, he sighs, shoulders relaxing for the first time in what feels like ages. When Claude groans, the sound rushes straight through his system, pooling very heatedly between his legs. Ignoring that - there’s a time and a place, perhaps, and he doesn’t want his body to ruin this - Vincent leans into the touch of his fingers before freeing one hand and pushing Claude’s hat further down his head, already on the verge of toppling off against the brick wall. Like this, he can… he can… yes. Running his fingers through Claude’s hair slowly, long fingertips stroking over his scalp, he realises that he could do this all night, no problem. Just the two of them, right here with their bodies and mouths pressed together, sharing an intimacy that he’s never truly known to exist. His dreams are nothing in comparison, less than the weight of a passing thought.
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Caressing down along the side of his tongue with just the tip of his own, Claude returns his hands to Vincent's body. He's getting ahead of himself, he can tell - probably getting ahead of them both, but beyond the physical aspect of it, how hard he's slowly growing in his trousers and how hard he can feel Vincent growing in his, Vincent's desperation is not only contagious. It's simply not just his anymore. Claude's gone too long at this point, without any real emotional investment in another human being. It's... simply been too long. The feeling of being adored is even less foreign than the feeling of needing someone else. Of wanting someone else for more than the five minutes the basics take, behind all the finesse. Vincent wants him. Claude had forgotten...
It's an automatic slip, born of too many hurried trysts where time was of the essence. One hand abandons the vast expanses of Vincent's chest and starts travelling down, down over his stomach, down over the front of his trousers, although his coat upholds a relative modesty. Claude's inhalations are shallow and fast, by now. They're hardly even parting, just breathing into each other. He presses his entire palm inwards, an overabundance of fabric eating up the brunt of it, but the gesture unmistakable regardless.
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Claude’s hand slips further down and suddenly, his palm is pressing in between his legs, right up against his – and it’s definitely hard by now, embarrassingly so. Vincent yelps, managing by some miracle not to bite down on Claude’s tongue as he jumps backwards, the loss of body contact almost painfully stark. A part of him wants to keep going, of course it does – the part that wouldn’t care about (would relish) being naked and depraved right in the middle of a public alleyway. The rest of him is mortified, his mind suddenly bearing down with all the accusations, all the blame and all the guilt. Why can’t he control himself? What’s this, why can’t he just…
Blinking, he runs his hands down his clothes, movements frantic, managing to brush out neither the wrinkles in the fabric nor the sudden discovery of touch, of physical nearness. More importantly, inside his mouth the taste of Claude – of his warmness, of the underlying passion – lingers. The wetness along his lips, same. He’s doing nothing to wipe them clean, either; rather, he’s just staring owlishly at Claude, everything suddenly pulled to a stop though every inch of his body – and really, his mind, too – remains desperate to proceed.
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"I'm sorry," he says now, hat dangling uselessly from between his fingers, since he's not going to put it back on. He'll be heading inside in another moment or two, whatever the direction in which this thing between them will progress - the hat will be no helmet, if tonight should prove the night of all nights where the darkness manages to trip him up on his way up the stairs. The pause extends between them while Claude looks Vincent over, just to ensure that the man isn't about to run off and throw himself in the Seine. Heaven knows, he's heard of enough of their kind who have... Vincent, however, remains a dark tower with the street and its electric lights further down for backdrop. All squared shoulders before Claude's eyes and the ghost of his erection still (barely) tangible against his palm. When he's about to speak again, about to -- say goodnight, perhaps, under all circumstances something stupid and cowardly, Claude realises that he doesn't want Vincent to leave. Not like this. He wants him to stay, if nothing else, then because he wants to feel connected to someone. Again. He doesn't want to spend the night alone. Again. So, rather than bidding him goodnight, Claude says: "Come with me up."
Fully aware that he might very well be repeating himself. Accepting it, too.
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"Yes." The word nearly tumbles out of him, his voice hoarse. Stepping closer once more, he takes another deep breath and smiles, managing for at least a few seconds to dispel any worries from his expression.
This shame... It doesn't belong to this here between them, whatever it is. It may be for him to bear but surely, what they just shared - what Claude just gave him without words or greediness - surely, something like that can't damn him in any way that his own thoughts haven't already. And even if it does... what then? Maybe that's the true question right there and maybe it's fine for him to have no answer now - beyond the obvious, a repetition:
"Yes, I'd love to."
Even if he'll be walking blindly up those stairs in the dark, just like last time he'll be in excellent company.
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"You know the way," he comments. As much an observation about Vincent's earlier visit as a careful recognition of the powerful stuff of which instincts are made. He doubts either of them is unsure about what's going to happen, once upstairs. The difference is just a matter of experience; the detail of their expectations... He'll have to be conscious of that, won't he? Be slightly more in control of himself than he managed down here, of all places. Unbeknownst to Vincent, Claude grimaces and starts mounting the stairs. Like an expedition. His record for covering all six floors is just short of a minute. Tonight, he'll take it slower for Vincent's sake, but not by much.
He can tell, after all, that it's not capability or willingness that would hold the other man back. No, it would be all the rest, but don't think he's underestimating it. Not by far.
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Following along, he tries not to wince at the tightness of his trousers. Scaling stairs is, apparently, not the thing to do when you've just been busy getting... passionate. He's had embarrassing situations before, naturally, as he's been assured goes for every man with at least a glimmer of virility. But as opposed to those situations when he feels mostly ridiculous about his lack of self-restraint, right now there's... a sense of urgency, too. An expectation, though he's got no idea whether Claude wants to... to...
Taking two steps at a time and trying not to bump into Claude on the way, he scowls at himself and his own stupidity. The man's just been... been showing him quite obviously what he wants to do. He's hardly inviting him up for a game of cards, now is he? Not that Vincent would know, right, seeing as the most exciting thing he gets up to on a daily basis is discovering and rectifying sets of numbers that don't match up. Christ. He swallows, running a hand through his hair, fingers close to gripping the strands on their way.
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Turning around, he gestures somewhat aimlessly around the large room with one arm. "I need to fire up, so just..." A pause while he looks Vincent over. Despite the row of windows all around them, the light is sparse and the other man's face all but drowned out by greyness. Claude knows his own face doesn't look much better. They'll need to do something about that, he thinks. Definitely. "Make yourself comfortable."
With that, he walks over to the fireplace and throws a few logs into the cold heap of ashes. Bends down and stuffs enough hay underneath to light the building, were he to be careless. He isn't. He rarely is. The flame eats into the kindling fast, grows and casts long orange-yellow tongues along the floor. The heat is palpable. Like an onslaught. Leaving it to catch on, Claude migrates from lamp to lamp (and he's got plenty, he likes the colours), turning them on one by one until the room is all polychromes. All warmth. The perfect excuse to loosen his bow tie.
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Make yourself comfortable, he said. Well, please. Comfortable is what he’d like to be but the road to getting there… He swallows again, reaching up to loosen his collar somewhat, feeling choked up and overheated. Without another word, he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it away to the side. It’s like a replica of his last visit, only not at all. How many times hasn’t he seen this very room, emerging through the darkness of his dreams with all its coloured lamps and the expanses of floor clearing away his mental barriers? And with all of Paris, stretching beyond the windows? How many times, indeed. It doesn’t exactly help him now.
As Claude loosens his bowtie, Vincent finally catches up with his body in full and consequently, the situation too. If he wanted to fool himself into thinking that this was merely politeness on Claude’s part once again, he’d have no legs to stand on to maintain the illusion any longer. Instead, he very stiffly removes his dinner jacket, too, the faded black satin cool and soft between his fingers. His shirt feels very white all of a sudden, the simple, dark-green vest properly buttoned up, yet slightly loose around his frame. It’s always the same between spring and summer – once winter’s finally release its grip on the world, it takes his body a bit of time to replenish itself. Not that it matters right now, what with Claude being… right there, possibly more than ready to… He steps closer, if nothing else then to take advantage of the heat slowly filling up the room.
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With a hard tug, the bow tie comes undone and Claude discards it carelessly on the nearest chair. Starts unbuttoning his vest (thick oriental silk, mahogany in colour and sleek like porcelain glazing), one mother-of-pearl button at a time, his fingers well-acquainted with the movements. Just another choreography on a microscopic scale, isn't it? Once it's open, both his jacket and the vest follow the bow tie's lead, landing in an only slightly less messy heap (wrinkles won't do, so he controls himself) while Claude himself walks over to Vincent, taking his dinner jacket from between his fingers and gesturing towards the remaining, free armchair.
"Give me another moment and I'll be all yours, Vincent," he says, voice a pitch lower than normally, because he can make out the faint outline of Vincent's chest - jutting bones and oblong muscles beneath the white cotton of his shirt. His cock feels heavy between his legs, a massive throbbing of blood and something less physical. Something more than just arousal. He quirks his lips slightly at Vincent, before turning away and crossing over to his bed, folding the dinner jacket nicely (respectfully) as he places it on top of the covers. Then, he digs out the sheepskins he always keeps at the foot of his bed, to warm his feet after a day of harsh abuse.
They make no sound as he spreads them out over the floor in front of the fireplace, no bundles in sight. Vincent will thank him in the morning when he wakes up without any knots gnawing their way down his neck and back. If he stays, of course. A fleeting hint of a frown and Claude straightens up, running a hand through his hair slowly.
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Expression a bit flat, he pushes every thought of his family and daily life away, focusing instead on Claude as he spreads out a flock of sheep – or what’s left of them, anyway – on the floor by the fireplace. His feet start to tingle immediately. Lord, they look so comfortable… And warm, too. He’s seen lots of sheepskins in the country, of course, whenever they’ve visited his father’s extended family. Usually (but not exclusively) attached to the sheep in question. But they’ve never actually owned any because those kinds of expenses would be ludicrous, considering his father’s income. Almost subconsciously, he toes out of his shoes – Claude did tell him to make himself comfortable and if those skins aren’t meant to warm his feet, then truly nothing is.
Whether they’re meant to warm other parts of him too… that’s the better question, isn’t it? I’ll be all yours, he said. And right now, sheepskins included, Vincent honestly can’t think of a single thing he’d rather have.
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Pushing his shoes out of the way rather unceremoniously, his woolen socks soon follow. The thick cotton of his shirt feels cool to the touch as he starts unbuttoning the long row of buttons, but the motions are so ritualised by now that he can do it blindly, his attention still clinging to Vincent's long frame, on perfect display in front of him. He'd really love for Vincent to shed his shirt as well, but he won't pressure him. Claude's patient and he'd much rather that the other man follows at whatever pace suits him. All Claude can really do is show the way and hope.
Thus, he shrugs out of his shirt, the coming of April having caused him to finally part with his singlet. Although he may look it, judging by his smooth chest, Claude isn't a hairless person - he can't go a day without shaving unless he wants to look unfittingly rugged and slovenly, but stage life requires certain sacrifices. The girls offer their toes. Claude, instead, has had to rid himself of some of his body hair. Throwing the shirt onto the bed where it joins Vincent's dinner jacket like a juxtaposed exposition of contrasts, he proceeds to work the front of his trousers open, too many layers weighing down on the sensitive length of his cock. Breeches, thick velvet and distance...
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Realising exactly what Claude’s looking at, Vincent shifts hurriedly forward, a rush of colour spreading in his face again. Is it wrong of him, sitting here, mostly dressed when Claude’s quite obviously… ? Without meaning to (or maybe not), his gaze shifts downwards to Claude’s trousers, the bulge between his legs visible beneath his breeches. The sight – and the thought that follows – makes him pause with his hands clutching his knees, fingers digging in with almost painful force. All he can think is that this is perfect – this is what he’s always… Except in his dreams, he knew exactly what to do and how to proceed, whereas now… Looking away, he fingers the buttons on his vest, movements sloppy and uncoordinated as he works them open one at a time. Shrugging out of it, he leaves it on the chair, beyond caring enough to treat it with respect. It’s old, it’s worn, it’s basically dead.
Shirt falling more loosely around his body, he finally toes out of his socks. The floor is cool beneath his feet but he’s too busy returning his hungry gaze to the half-naked man in front of him to care. His mind is already running ahead of him, his body yearning to touch, to grip and to hold and to… to… With a frown, he tears his gaze away and gets to work on his shirt, getting about three buttons down before he’s got to take a break, breathing and fingers working too fast, out of step.
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"Here," he says, voice still deep (hoarse, rusty), but tone gentle, "let me." The shirt comes undone between his hands soundlessly, the quiet only disrupted by their shared, shaking breathing. He isn't coming to Vincent's rescue, nothing so innocent. It's simply that Vincent's chest will be right there, a few layers further in and Claude wants to feel him. He... wants to feel him. His breeches are getting downright uncomfortable and he should do something about that. In a moment.
For now, he just cocks his head, watching Vincent for another couple of seconds. When the other man is sitting down like this, Claude's the taller one, but it's a temporary advantage, he knows. So, he should claim it, shouldn't he? The opportunity. Leaning in without saying anything, fingers having forced the last button into submission, exposing a thin singlet underneath, Claude presses his lips against Vincent's. Hard. The angle is awkward, but so are splits. See if he cares.
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It’s not a hesitant kiss, either. To be truthful, ‘hesitant’ probably isn’t a word one should associate with Claude in general, though his quiet attitude and calm approach to people might fool someone less inclined to care. Leaning in, he reaches up with one hand and runs his hand over Claude’s neck, fingers slipping down over his collarbone and digging into his shoulder. It’s a grip, nothing less. And Claude’s body, his every signal actually, is saying quite clearly – hold on as much as you like. He’s never thought about it before but truly, this is something very unique to men. This altogether physical sort of strength, the kind that would only make a woman look foolish and contrived in comparison.
Deciding that some initiative might just be more proper than sitting back like a blushing virgin, Vincent shrugs out of his shirt, managing not to break the kiss in the process. Then, with all the reluctance of a man thirsting for more, he draws away and meets Claude’s eyes with something a little closer to self-possession. The natural self-confidence that he’s always exhibited in all other matters of life lingering just beneath the surface.
“Please…” He takes a quick breath, not enough to do much besides leave his voice a few keys too light. “Let me get this off.” With that, he leans out of Claude’s personal space as much as he can bear (eyes flickering past the bulge in his trousers once more because it’s right there, he really can’t just…) and pulls the singlet over his head, taking only a few seconds to fold it and drop it in a pile on the floor along with the vest and the shirt.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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