waywardious | (2) after and before.

Entry tags:

april 1893,
log

(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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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Edited 2015-12-08 16:02 (UTC)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Claude lies down and extends an invitation – a lazy and wholly undemanding sort and for that, doubly appreciated. Vincent looks up, follows him with his gaze for a long, uncertain moment. Eyes darting away from him to the exit on the other side of the room where the darkness has eaten up all details of the wooden door, he tries to swallow. Realises immediately that there’s nothing in his throat to swallow in the first place. It’s dry, even more so than the well of courage he’s been invigorated by all evening. Instead, there’s just this. Claude’s open arms, Vincent’s own hard, undeterred cock and his empty hands.

Blinking, he exhales. His chest feels too tight even so, like there’s something locked up inside of it that he can’t manage to rid himself of, even breathing as slowly, as carefully as he does. As he has been all his life, ever since he first realised exactly what a disappointment he’d become. The thought doesn’t drown him in self-pity – really, self-pity is the last thing he’d ever indulge in. His life is at least decent. Gray’s a colour too of a sort, comfortably stuck as it is between blacks and whites. At least he hasn’t lost a lover to the gallows, just because life doesn’t bend its neck to those who might have treasured (and deserved) the gesture. Jaw tightening, he sits up straighter and looks at Claude more directly, face impassive. Then, wordlessly, he crawls over to him on his hands and knees, the physical length of distance traversed within less than two seconds and the rest of it… the rest of it, born. For now.

Settling down on his side, his cock hard still between his thighs and the feel of arousal lingering beneath his skin, he shifts into the warmth of Claude’s arms. Perhaps he ought to feel embarrassed by this – by seeking out the embrace of a man he knows only barely. By seeking out the embrace of any man, period. Then again, he ought to be embarrassed by much right now and really, there’ll be a Sunday fit for prayer soon enough. This… this is something else. That much, at least, he can tell, even if the actual nature of it confuses him. He looks at Claude, eyes searching his face, marveling at the way his own, dull grayish-brown eyes seem warmer somehow whilst reflected back to him. As is his way, of course, so very inherently.

As Vincent lies down next to him, Claude shifts down the other man's body, arranging himself with easy access to all things of importance. Like the slope of Vincent's neck, extending into shoulder where he rests his face, pressing it into the angle of conjunction. All blissful shade and the sharp scent of Vincent's body, his sweat and his arousal and something much more personal than any such temporarities. Humming lightly in pleasure, he presses a kiss to the very, very first inch of well-defined shoulder, their chests pressed together and the hint of chest hair extending across Vincent's pecs in sparse trails. If he wasn't so spent, God knows he would be getting hard again just from the thought, the teasing sensation of softness over his nipples. Claude smiles, delegates another kiss to another part of Vincent's shoulder and draws back in order to mutter: "Aren't you a work of art, Vincent..." Only to ease back into position, one hand slipping down Vincent's stomach, fingers splayed out wide and covering a good third of the displayed skin. Warm to the touch. Slightly sweaty. Utterly delicious.

Inching just a bit closer, as close as they can get without Claude turned elsewhere and Vincent's cock burying into his ass (and wasn't that an idea worth cultivating), Claude follows the jutting line of Vincent's hipbone with his fingertips, letting himself be led straight to the crotch, the light touch of hair there as well and the immense expanses of hard, throbbing cock. He sucks in a sharp breath, the arousal an entirely mental state at this point, closing his palm lightly over the curve of the base, fingers following suit soon after. The hold tight, lots of pressure up along the underside as he drags out the first stroke.

Vincent's cock is equal parts length and warm hardness - not a balance you strike often, not so very perfectly, at least. Claude's an artist, he strives. He strives for this and holding it between his hands in the most physical sense is really not something you are allowed to achieve too often, on stage. Or in life. It's a once in a lifetime experience, isn't it? "You're perfect," he says then, speaking directly into Vincent's skin, nose nestled snugly along the trembling mount of Vincent's Adam's apple. Hand initiating a slow, but harsh rhythm, palm smearing out the droplets that Vincent's cock is leaking across the exposed roundness of the head for every downward motion.

He rests his chin lightly against Claude’s shoulder, mouthing a semi-wet trail from his jaw and over his neck, a mindless exercise. His mind is drowning once more, first in the feel of Claude’s body pressed up against his, warm and solid – and then, second, the feel of his hand, trailing downwards over his hipbone. Happily, the touch isn’t light enough to make his skin twitch; instead, his breathing simply slows down almost on cue, trembling still as Claude’s hand closes around the length of his cock. God. Eyes falling shut, he lifts up slightly, enough to support his weight on his elbow (and not, as an alternative, on Claude’s turned head). Craning his neck only slightly, he buries his nose in the hairs along Claude’s neck, his scent rounded and hot, leaving his breathing just a bit less restricted in return.

The words are harder to process than the physical caresses and it’s not that he doesn’t want to hear it, it’s just… it’s just. It’s painful to believe sometimes, isn’t it? And tonight, the pain’s no less real even if belief is a foreign concept, something new and very-much untried. Shifting, he breathes out shakily as Claude starts stroking his cock, the pace and the roughness of his palm exactly perfect. Hips working with small but powerful jerks, he lets Claude take him close to the edge once more, the need for release more subtle but no less urgent than before. Rather than settling primarily in his balls and along the shaft of his cock, it’s a feeling rooted deep within his core, rushing through his blood almost faster than the pulse of his heart.

Behind his eyelids, there’s pressure building, too. It’s familiar and unwelcome, always unwelcome, but right now he can’t be bothered to hold it back, afraid to affect the climax approaching fast within his system. It’s a question of priorities, just like this night in its entirety, like the money he spends on ballet tickets rather than new clothes or food. Thus, he simply bends his head, leaving his hair to fall across his forehead and eyes and hopefully obscure what’s bound to come, even as his climax starts building in his thighs and lower back. Seconds, minutes later, it erupts – all over Claude’s fingers and shaking through his body like a quake, forcing water from his eyes as well. This time, he’s soundless, forehead resting against Claude’s shoulder and neck, hands resting limply against the sheepskins.

It's faster, somehow, this time around. The entire act. Rushed, even as the pace is no more desperate or hurried than before. Claude feels Vincent move, lips trailing along his jaw until he lifts himself up a little, just enough to leave Claude's movements unrestricted. Not weighed down by their proximity, close enough that Vincent's face is buried in Claude's hair and his breathing hot puffs of air over the top of his head. Claude works Vincent's cock benevolently, generously, fast, wrist aching after the first minute, because the angle is awkward. Not that he cares, not with how Vincent's heaving inhalations and heavier exhalations (no sounds, no sweet words now) are telling him of the other man's impending orgasm.

When he climaxes, it's an eruption of hot semen all over Claude's hand, stray droplets up his stomach, a trace or two up his own, too. Claude waits for the first settlement, feeling how Vincent is shaking against him, palpable proof of his physical exhaustion. His cock throbs hotly between his fingers, losing rigidity only little by little, so Claude holds on to the sensation of hard flesh, girth and length as long as possible. When he lets go, it's gingerly, indeed, shifting away enough to glance up at the other man's face. Beneath the obscuring shadows of his bangs, the light catches in --

Uncaringly drying his dirty fingers off in the sheepskins, Claude twists his way up on eye-level with Vincent, brushing his hair out of his face and pressing a kiss to his brow. Saying nothing. There's nothing to say, when all comes down to it. Vincent's just been shown a world totally removed from everything he knows and now, it'll be bureaucracy and politics. Visa applications, passport checks, the works. Not all journeys are worth the trouble. Not for everyone. So Claude just turns onto his back, coaxing Vincent closer in an unspoken invitation to claim his chest, should he want to.

After all, Claude might be a brick wall physically, but he has learned how to adjust and all brick was clay originally. Couldn't be truer for him either.

They’re men, of course, and motherly gestures are reserved for the other sex (supposedly, ‘softer’; sometimes lines aren’t truly lines at all) but even so, there’s something terribly careful and caring – gentle – about the way Claude brushes his bangs out of his eyes and kisses his forehead. He can’t help the way he leans into it, not the touch itself necessarily, but the implication. The unexpressed acceptance underneath.

When Claude lies down, his hands urging him to follow suit with no dominance or force to speak of, Vincent follows his initiative without hesitation. It feels like he’s lying down forever, his body slow and muscles unresponsive, every small glimmer of vigour sprayed out across Claude’s fingers, across his stomach and the sheepskins. There’s nothing left but a dazed kind of resignation – the knowledge that once he shuts his eyes, there may only be darkness left once he opens them again. All the same… at least he won’t be blind. Not as such, not anymore. Lying down fully on his side, he shifts closer almost without thinking, accepting Claude’s chest as his new, favourite pillow. He’s broad and warm, much preferable to any bed, his chest completely smooth beneath Vincent’s chin. Brow furrowing, he reaches down with one hand and runs his fingers lightly down Claude’s flat stomach, following the line of his treasure trail before flattening out his palm over his abdomen, his cock resting some inches further down, heavy and spent. He feels silly to realise so very late in the game – that Claude clearly shaves his chest for his roles, obviously so. Imagine, then, what this wonderful pillow would feel like if he didn’t…

Sniffing, his tears already drying on his cheeks as tiredness simply flattens all other emotions in its wake, he manages a weak smile, gaze moving from Claude’s body to the shadows on the floor, broken up in uneven patterns by the fireplace. “I should have known,” he says, voice low and flat, devoid of most nuances. “Dancers – you truly give everything to the arts, don’t you? Whatever it takes.” Compared to broken toes and deceased lovers, surely hair isn’t much to speak of. On the other hand, it’s one thing on a list longer than most outside the world of theatre could procure and the thought, for some reason, gives him strength. There’s something on the other side – no matter what he’ll choose to part with once the dust has finally settled.

Claude's eyes are already fluttering shut when Vincent's fingers slip down his stomach and there's a moment where he finds himself thinking that the other man is going to attempt waking the beast all over again. Claude likes him. He likes him a lot (he realises), but like is no recipe for miracles. No, that takes stronger feelings and a lot of hard, hard work. About to reach down and redirect his hand, though, Vincent ends up simply flattening his palm over his skin and peace is restored. Claude's eyes close. Behind the empty darkness of his eyelids, it takes him a moment to process Vincent's words as he comments on what he was apparently figuring out in the most physical sense.

Whatever it takes? Claude manages a slight smile, manages not to think of Pavel and curls his left arm around Vincent's waist, keeping him close to his body, adding to the weight of his head on his chest. It's comfortable and rather cosy, but it'll be cold in the morning, if they're planning to sleep like this. Here. With his free hand, he yanks the nearest sheepskin free from its constraints beneath his arse and tugs it into place over first his own front, then Vincent's. In natural succession.

"We are the arts," he replies. Meaning that it's only natural, everything that they give. Themselves, too. Well, as natural as shaving your very, very natural chest hair off to fit into costumes effortlessly. Everything comes at a certain price. As Vincent already knows and will soon discover all over again, Claude's aware. And as Claude himself will be reminded, if he's supposed to just... let Vincent go tomorrow. With no promises extended.

None expected.

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