(a) fic - and back again

[thecountofthree]

Characters: Vincent
Warnings: Masturbation, sexual fantasies

And back again.

When Vincent wakes up, the moon’s high in the sky outside, a shallow beam of light cast across his bedroom floor. His hair’s sticking to his brow, a fine layer of sweat making his fingers feel damp as he wipes his face with his hands. Stretching out his legs and bumping his feet lightly against the bedframe, he scrambles into a seated position, trying to shake it off. Whatever it was. Hands, he suddenly recalls – warm hands, smooth and perhaps just a tiny bit rough, going over his naked chest. And down, downwards to… He shudders, the bed creaking almost unnoticeably beneath his weight. Solid, still, unlike the heat in his stomach and groin, pooling down his thighs and up his back, incurably there, incurably present. With a wince, he throws a glance out the window, the curtains perpetually drawn because he’s high enough above the ground that it doesn’t matter. To him, at least. His mother deems it irresponsible, just about begging for a breach of his privacy. Thank God she can only refer to the curtains, grey and silent – as opposed to the dreams haunting him with such painful frequency.

Ever since he turned 12 and started truly noticing people around him, certain ones in particular – he’s been plagued by nightmares. Nightmares, yes, and of a most unbearable nature, too. With a deep sigh, his exhalation shaky from the pulse beating too fast still underneath his skin, he forces himself to look down. At himself, his long body covered by his heavy sheets and leaving no outward trace of the throbbing between his legs. At least this time, he hasn’t left the bedding wet and sticky from… from that, from his own lack of self-restraint. But it’s a small favour – he’s got work tomorrow before sunrise and with his body all tight and overheated like this, there’ll be no going back to sleep anytime soon. Unless he…

Shutting his eyes tightly, he tries the approach he’s been recommended by their family physician, who’d chuckled good-naturedly upon hearing about his problem and patted his shoulder, bidding him welcome to the world of men. Naturally, he’d left out a significant detail concerning the… the content of his dreams because he knows for a fact that the reaction would have been less amiable if the older man had known… had been told… that the hunt he was congratulating Vincent on was not one he’d ever want to join.

Surely, no sane man would. Vincent, on his part, certainly feels like he’s losing his mind a little bit every time.

Unfortunately, Monsieur Gerard’s approach – to imagine something thoroughly uninteresting, preferably something odd or repulsive (“Personally – and do keep this to yourself, Vincent, my boy – I will forward an image of my mother-in-law, wearing absolutely nothing besides a frilly, pink hat. Does the trick every time, I promise you.”) – it has no effect for him, not now and never before, mostly because his other thoughts, the dirty ones, keep intruding upon every memory he attempts to bring forth. The images of – of bared skin, long lines, straight and hard, strong - they simply keep… invading his mind, invading him. And isn’t it terrible, how he doesn’t even feel truly opposed to the whole thing? To being invaded and invading in turn.

People like him – either they burn in Hell or rot in prison. That’s how it goes. Maybe his mother has always known, even when all she talks about is the curtains, his posture, the tiny details that once combined do eventually, inevitably, make the whole. Regardless.

Inching further beneath the covers, he tries once more to will his body into compliance, failing spectacularly. Instead, his treacherous mind counteracts his efforts with images much more appropriate for a backwater alley. Sordid deeds carried out in the black of night by people with no moral standards, with no will power and no concern for propriety. And once more, yes, he’s right in the centre, sinking to his knees in front of an almost faceless stranger, his hands warm and tight against the back of his neck. Fingers just slipping through his hair, stroking over his scalp and God, the… the intimacy, the heat of it, the touch…

Screwing his eyes shut even further, tightly enough to make his brow furrow, he shifts down onto his back again, one, trembling hand slipping over his neck, first, the touch lingering as the barest replica of his imagination. Then – further down, over the front of his nightshirt, only a quick imprint of his fingertips because his breath is hitching in his throat now and he needs… he needs… Wetting his lips mostly unconsciously, he pulls the shirt away from his knees and up over his thighs, movements fast and harsh, the sound of fabric rustling loud amidst the shadows of the room. Freezing suddenly, he listens for a long time (an eternity) for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, creaking floorboards - any sign at all that he shouldn’t proceed; evidently, he needs outside disturbances to secure his judgment. But – nothing. Only the sound of his own breathing, the blood pounding inside his skull. Biting his lip, saliva clinging to his teeth, he gets back to work, realising with an almost white-hot clarity that for all his self-admonishing, he doesn’t truly know what to do with any of this. When it all comes down to it.

He’s wearing nothing underneath his nightshirt and maybe that’s a problem, maybe he ought to change something about that, make this whole… thing… even less attractive than it already is. Right now, though, he can’t think of anything besides the warm stiffness of his cock, the length of it achingly hard as he runs his palm over it. Sometimes, he’ll spit in his hand first but tonight, he’s already damp to the touch. With a groan, he wraps his hand around it near the base, the combination of his hot palm and a rising expectancy making his breathing even shallower. The man – the man is nameless, faceless but not a stranger, never a stranger. Just someone he’s… yet to meet. Yes. Someone waiting in the future, certainly, even brighter still than the stars in the sky, than the moonshine currently hidden from view by the darkness behind his eyelids. He’s running his hands through Vincent’s hair more firmly now, his touch turning into a grip and oh, his body is so warm, naked now, as naked as Vincent himself.

Running his palms flatly over stomach muscles, hard and unyielding, square as only the male body can be, he leans in close and buries his nose in coarse pubic hair, the scent of sex sharp in his nostrils. Sweat, arousal, whatever that means on… on someone else. With a sigh, longer this time, he starts stroking himself, a quick pace, urge building inside his muscles rapidly as he settles with a rhythm, familiar by now. Eyelids fluttering open, he stares upwards at the ceiling, at the shadows stretched out and speared by the moonlight from the window. God. Hand working fast, he imagines how it would feel, closing his lips around his stranger’s hard cock, working it into his mouth. What it would be like, being so full and so stretched, how it would sound in his ears when the other man would moan and gasp. His name, God’s, whichever he prefers because Vincent’s certainly no judge, not like this on his knees with his mouth and throat filled to the brim. Inch by inch until he can’t even breathe, until he’s so full of it that they… both… burst…

When he climaxes, his stranger does so too almost simultaneously, emptying himself down his throat. The hollowness of it, the complete lack of anything besides stale air rushing into his lungs – it’s almost enough to tear him up. He cries too easily, so his mother says whilst his father says nothing. Thus, he fights it so as to be fighting something – allows himself to drown in the rush of pleasure instead, at the way it sweeps through his lower body, up and down the length of his cock, semen coating his fingers and (alas) the duvet. He strokes himself for only as long as it takes the explosion of pleasure to settle as a less insistent tingling beneath his skin – then, he jerks his hand away as if burned, pulling at his nightshirt with fast, frantic movements to cover himself up.

Whilst his body is sated, his mind is screaming at him. His cheeks may be reddening in only one colour, but its shades are multiple. Shutting his eyes once more, he rests his arms flatly by his sides, shifting away slightly to avoid the damp spots. Tomorrow… well. No. He won’t think about it. For now, sleep. Sleep - and this wonderful, terrible feeling spreading through his body, leading him into darkness. By his own.

~