(5) the other side

[thecountofthree]

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.

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[thecountofthree]

His breathing grows progressively more irregular as Claude thrusts upwards into his hand, his own palm busy handling Vincent’s arousal with as much grace as you’d rightfully expect. All the same, it feels as if the other man has lit a match to his entire system, his cock straining in his trousers now and his blood rushing through his veins, shrouding up any last remains of rational thought. God. God. Turning his touch into a grip, he strokes Claude through his trousers, following the movements of his hips. The stimulation of Claude’s hand isn’t enough by any means and that’s good – that’s fortunate, in fact, because all he wants to focus on right now is making him as happy as humanely possible. Happy and sated.

In the back of his mind, he keeps revisiting the same scenario – the two of them on Claude’s sheepskins, the warmth of the fire and the taste of cock on the back of his tongue. Brow furrowing, he pushes his other hand downwards, fumbling around for the buttons on the other man’s trousers. Whether or not this is the time for it (and really, his mind doesn’t truly want to deliberate propriety, not with Claude’s cock pressing into his palm), surely the only logical step is forward and he can’t think of any other way than to flick each button free, one at a time, feeling the fabric loosen in turn.

“I’m sorry – I… if you think we shouldn’t…” He’s speaking against Claude’s lips, words as ragged as his breathing. But despite his words, his hands aren’t even pausing, movements bordering on frantic. If Claude doesn’t stop him, in a short moment at best he’ll be slipping that gorgeous cock free from its confinements and it’s been so long, it’s been weeks and weeks and weeks…

[waywardious]

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?"

[thecountofthree]

He doesn’t. Stop. At least not for long – but just enough to shift to the floor beneath the table. It’s not a fantasy or a result of anything even remotely well-deliberated, just an impulse, plain and simple, an urge. He can certainly feel how much Claude has missed him in return and he’s growing almost desperate to feel it in his mouth, too, that sharp ache in his jaw and the sense of stretch, of Claude’s girth pressing into his throat. Like last time they slept together, all rational thoughts have been pushed aside, his vision narrowed down to the two of them. To Claude, here, next to him and the heat of arousal rushing through his body.

Leaning in, his hair brushing up against the edge of the table, he undoes the last few remaining buttons on Claude’s breeches, gaze completely focused on the task. At hand. Sure, his legs may be sticking out from underneath the table cloth but truthfully, unless someone actively pulls him away right this second, he simply can’t bring himself to care. Another hasty breath, another flick of his wrist and finally, the white fabric falls away to reveal Claude’s gorgeous cock underneath. Lines upon lines of naked hardness.

“Oh, you truly have. Missed me.” Spoken with a slight smile, voice sounding several notches lower than usual. Leaning in, ignoring the way the table edge digs into the back of his scalp, he presses a kiss to the underside of Claude’s cock, the skin warm and soft against his lips.

[waywardious]

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.

[thecountofthree]

Thank God Claude’s telling him not to dally – rather than not to proceed. For a second (just an outdrawn blink of his eyes), he was afraid. To be discouraged now, with Claude’s cock more or less pushed against his face. Smile dissipating, he takes a moment more to simply look – at the long lines of flesh and skin, the head already glistening, Claude’s hand in his hair telling him all that he can’t possibly convey in words now. In public.

Christ.

Taking a deep breath, he finally reaches up with one hand, curling his fingers around the base of Claude’s cock. Guiding the whole length of it away from his body, he opens up wide and sucks the head into his mouth. The taste explodes on his tongue; arousal, sweat, fluids and skin. The scent of sex goes straight to his cock and he takes a moment to enjoy, to suck on the tip, saliva running down the shaft in slim, wet drops. Then, he complies – swallowing and going slow to avoid choking, he relaxes his throat and takes his cock in. Inch by inch, willfully ignoring the very instinctual urge to gag on it, his jaw straining all the way until he’s got his nose buried in Claude’s soft pubic hair. Filled up completely and utterly, his mind a haze of sensations, his free hand cradling Claude’s inner thigh hard.

[waywardious]

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.

[thecountofthree]

Though Claude’s voice is little but a whisper, it carries across the mostly figurative distance between their bodies quite unmistakably. Though it’s odd to think of himself as a lover – after all, he’s been cradling little beyond his own sheets for so many years – he’s nevertheless come to realise something about his own character when it comes to sex. A very general observation, even. He’s never been a cruel person by any means and in bed, this becomes all the more obvious for how teasing simply doesn’t appeal to him. He’s no wish to keep Claude hanging by the tips of his fingers (not even counting the way he’s more or less pulling out his hair at the moment), no need to drag him along, to withhold or overwhelm.

Thus, he doesn’t waste many minutes keeping the other man on the edge. God knows he wouldn’t mind just staying here with his throat blocked out, with the scent and taste of the other man melting through his system. He’s getting all that he’s been missing for the past many weeks and more, his own cock positively soaking his breeches. How selfish would it be, then, to take and take without any thought to Claude’s desperate breathing, his plea for more, constricted only by their circumstances?

Relaxing his body and muscles once more, Vincent pulls back very slightly, then dives back in. Repeat. Repeat, until there’s a semblance of rhythm to it, a sense of in and out. The table and Claude’s hands aren’t leaving him room for too much but really, it’s blatantly obvious, isn’t it? That ‘too much’ isn’t needed anyway and isn’t that just a wonderful thought?