thecountofthree: (sorry I could not travel)
Vincent Fortesque ([personal profile] thecountofthree) wrote2015-12-31 11:19 pm
Entry tags:

(5) the other side





Characters: Claude, Vincent.
Date: June 17th, 1893.
Place: The Ganymede.





The sun’s burning low on the horizon when he ventures out into the city, hands buried in his pockets and his jacket buttoned up tightly around his frame. True, he’s been working with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows today, the heat in the office threatening to leave him dripping sweat all over his books. But with the Seine cooling down the inner districts of Paris, Vincent nevertheless feels better dressed in too much – even if sparse or at least, light might have been more… suitable. For the occasion, such as it is.

As he nears their designated meeting spot, he hopes to God that Claude hasn’t taken offense to his lack of reply. Or lost courage if such a thing is possible for a man like him – beneath that confident surface of his, Vincent is at least starting to think that his core might just be softer than one might think at first glance. The thought’s calming. Comfortable, in a familiar kind of way.

All the same, one might assume… since Vincent hasn’t even agreed to meet… With a slight frown, he pushes his hands even further into his pockets, the fabric straining in response. No doubt, there’ll be a few seams loose when he gets home later tonight but so be it – his mother already knows that he’ll be out tonight, that he’ll be… socializing. She hasn’t shown any interest in neither Claude nor their designation and really, regardless of the reason he can still be grateful, can’t he? For the fact that she hasn’t changed at all, overlooking when she ought to be scrutinize.




waywardious: (sauté |)

[personal profile] waywardious 2016-01-02 04:49 pm (UTC)(link)
Multiple developments happen simultaneously. Vincent tugs him closer to his body by his waist, all long limbs and half-embraces that cause another sort of warmth entirely to spread through Claude's body. Prudence is watching them, discreetly as is her style when it's not a question of clothes or mannerisms. She's a sensitive person. As is Vincent, it seems, when he offers Sylvain no bait and only implications, soon ignoring his narrowed eyes and that all too clear warning of his. Sylvain's warnings are always unmistakable, always have been. Albeit easy to recognise and navigate, no less impossible to steer around. The man takes no responsibility for himself, idiot.

Finding Vincent looking at him, openly, Claude tires of considering Sylvain at all. He inches further into Vincent's hold, reaching up to slide his hand around to the back of the other man's neck, fingers splayed out over heated skin, burying into brown strands of hair. Then, he leans in and kisses him. They both taste like alcohol, alcohol and maleness and freedom - and Claude could get drunk on the concepts alone. When he pushes his tongue in between Vincent's lips, it's a hot slide, smooth and therefore gentle in its own right. Unapologetic, even so. He cocks his head, his other hand coming to a rest against Vincent's stomach. How often haven't Pavel and he sat in some spot around here and done this, done this freely. Certain parts of your history sink into oblivion (off to the side, Prudence is dragging off with a dangerously silent Sylvain), while others are meant for reenactment.

The true art form is learning how to distinguish between them.
waywardious: (jeté |)

[personal profile] waywardious 2016-01-05 12:30 pm (UTC)(link)
When Vincent draws away to make an advance at his alcohol instead, Claude mirrors him - moves little, least of all out of Vincent's reach, but wraps the fingers of his free hand around the coolness of his cognac tumbler. The contrast in comparison to the heat of Vincent's skin which he's lazily brushing with his other hand stark. He sighs in pleasure, relaxes back against Vincent's curl of a hold and rolls his shoulders slightly. They're always tense, his shoulders - it's the stress point he is bothered by the most on most days, but in these surroundings, in this company, he hardly notices. It's simply of no relevance, is it? Not when the sight that greets you, meets you upon turning your head is Vincent's honest gaze and a wide, unguarded smile that seems to have grown out of an unnatural meekness. Like that of soil exhausted for all its nutrients.

Another long drink of his cognac, draining it almost completely and he pushes the crystal out of the way. Cocks his head at Vincent's words and smiles, slightly but with all his warmth and a touch of tease, before pushing up against him again, breathing against his cheek first, then his ear. Long mouthing kisses of lips only. "I've missed you as well," he answers, most of the sentence skirting over the shell of Vincent's ear. His other hand has sought back to Vincent's stomach, but is travelling down rather than up. Down over hipbone and the joint between abdomen and thigh. Vincent has such gorgeous, long limbs. He can feel it even when he's all wrapped up in clothing - the length and terseness of his muscles. Much like he can feel himself react, grow harder in his trousers fast. Claude manages a long, hard exhalation, then he reaches up and grabs hold of Vincent's hand by the wrist, waiting for him to dispose of his glass with ungraceful impatience. Shuffles closer, inching along the leather of the seat. "I could show you just how much, Vincent."
waywardious: (tombé |)

[personal profile] waywardious 2016-01-08 09:30 am (UTC)(link)
His kiss is hot and full of harsh breathing, the taste of whiskey and cognac in a strange blend - the sensation of their fronts pushed halfway up against each other, Vincent's fingers rubbing in distractingly long motions up the underside of his cock. On the backside of his closed eyelids, all Claude sees is stars, bright like the stage lights when you look up during a performance. He groans into Vincent's mouth and drops his own hand lower, a fast plunge, inelegant (but what have you) in its efficiency... The bulge that meets his palm is hard and palpably throbbing and Claude closes the entire expands of his palm and splayed fingers out over it, rubbing up against it with a touch from all sides. A cup and feel, yes? Just like that. Another groan, a halfway mumble against Vincent's lips. Perhaps a cuss.

Positioning himself more comfortably, Claude finds himself draped in against Vincent's side, careful not to let him carry the full force of his weight (muscles weigh a ton), but enough to completely abandon himself and just push his arse off the bench, pelvis up against Vincent's fingers, his now fully erect cock rubbing along the entire length of the other man's touch, into his palm, around... He leans his head back, breathes out hard and doesn't care that besides Vincent watching, there is probably an entire audience out there in the shadows. He's used to audiences. Usually, though, he's the pleaser. Right now --

"It's amazing, Vincent," he manages, a hoarse, deep whisper. Thrust, thrust, thrust. He only halfway manages to keep moving his own hand in time. "My God."
waywardious: (partnering |)

[personal profile] waywardious 2016-01-09 12:48 pm (UTC)(link)
If you think we shouldn't, Vincent mumbles, words sinking into each other in a perfect reflection of how Claude is well on his way to sinking far, far, far beneath the surface of his common sense. His best intentions. Vincent's fingers are nimble and work fast, work precisely and with every button flicked open, his cock gains a little more ground for itself. Freedom. Claude could stop him, he knows. Tell him that they're being improper and that Nicolas would throw them out on their arses, if he found them actually... But surely, Ganymède has seen worse than Vincent's hand granting him his rightful climax. Didn't he see Strauss run through here naked once? ... It doesn't matter. Nicolas is lenient, as a rule. Is good at overlooking what he doesn't need to see. It's fine. It's fine. It's good, so good.

"Don't stop," Claude manages to whisper, through gritted teeth as he lifts himself up enough to help the process along. No, he doesn't want Vincent to stop, but they need to be fast about it, if not necessarily, exactly discreet. The gentlemen in the corner sure have noticed already. He breathes in, breathes out. Smiles faintly, head dipped back and gaze on the ceiling, all muscles straining from the back of his neck to his inner thighs. "Can you feel how much I've missed you?"
waywardious: (frappé |)

[personal profile] waywardious 2016-01-09 02:28 pm (UTC)(link)
Whatever Vincent said after Claude's breeches finally come undone, Claude doesn't hear. It is a combination of the tablecloth slurring the words and, more prominently, the feeling of Vincent's lips brushing up the underside of his now very bare, very hard cock. He doesn't even attempt breathing normally, although Prudence has entered from the bar area and (fortunately) gotten into conversation with an elderly man who at times plays the fiddle on their music nights. It's torture, how he can feel Vincent so close to his crotch, palms flat where they are resting against his inner thighs, warm through the fabric - but not the heat of his mouth, the wet softness, the suction... Trying to bow his head a little to the side, to keep his voice low and private, he exhales the plea: "Vincent, don't --" A pause as his hips work forward in a helpless thrust against Vincent's face. Claude frowns, reaches beneath the table with one hand to bury his fingers in the hair at the back of Vincent's head, hand taking the brunt of the table's edge. Vincent better thank him, thank him now, too. "Don't dally. I really need --"

Another broken, unfinished sentence, but surely the man will understand the message. Take pity on him. Sweat is beginning to pearl down his temples, over his brow and he dries off the worst with the back of his free hand. The other already tightening something awful in Vincent's hair. Pavel and he did something like this once, didn't they? Here. Not right here, but somewhere around... And yet, it was nothing -- like this. Dear Lord, have mercy.
waywardious: (danseur noble |)

[personal profile] waywardious 2016-01-09 03:59 pm (UTC)(link)
A part of him imagines it must be an amusing sight indeed for the passing Prudence, how she notices Vincent beneath the table first and then Claude's heated, quickly flushing face as she looks up, just in time with Vincent taking the head of his cock into his mouth, his tongue pushing up while he sucks on the tip and Claude is fighting a lost battle not to let it show. How good it is. How he's all but exploding from the pleasure of it. Pure. It's pure. She raises an eyebrow briefly, then continues into the adjoining room - the study... Leaves them to it. And Claude loses track without a single regret, Vincent sinking down over his cock in one, long outdrawn mouthful. Until he's buried in the other man's throat to the hilt. He can feel his lips. The wetness and the softness and the heat. Whimpering, as low as he can manage and very much under his breath, he keeps still. Doesn't thrust into the sensations, feeling no need to challenge Vincent's gag reflex further, but dear Lord... Move, move, move. The fingers in his hair are gripping so tight a hold that it might just be hurting himself more than Vincent, though Vincent as well. He'll have to bear it. Claude knows he can, Claude knows -- "Move, Vincent," he whispers through lips that are hardly moving at all themselves, sweat dripping into his eyes and his back muscles hurting from his attempt not to just bury forward. "It's better than anything, but I need more, don't just, don't --" Staring unseeingly into thin air as his balls tighten up further and further, he can tell it'll be as fast an endeavour as he insisted it must. He only needs the peak now. To fall.

At the back of his mind, he remembers like an afterthought that none of his prior bed mates ever managed to take all of it. His length. When fluting him. They could suck him down their throat well enough, but this tight constriction, this... His eyes are falling closed, a slight groan escaping him despite his best efforts.