(( LOG : milord ))

[downplaying]

[Characters:] Vincent & Claude
[Date:] 07.03.2009
[Summary:] And time for leftovers.
__________

He got up at six. To shower. Check his emails. Write a few notes on the newest announcements from French Parliament – nothing interesting today, not as of yet, but it’s still early and the French are quick. It can change in a matter of hours. For now, though, he’s off duty, cooking eggs and making coffee in the kitchen that’s really too tiny for proper food preparation. He isn’t expecting Vincent to stay forever, of course, but if the man wants a cup of coffee and a slice of baguette with scrambled eggs for breakfast before leaving, Claude can provide. If he doesn’t… Well, that’s his choice and his loss. Claude’s baguettes are homemade and his scrambled eggs are Michelin star-material. All of it his mom’s recipe, after all.

It’s eight, now. So, dressed in a bathrobe, he brings a simple tray with him into the bedroom, turning on the radio as he passes it on the shelf – some soulless pop music filling the silence and drowning out the sound of Vincent’s breathing. “I’d have picked you for an early riser,” Claude says, putting the tray down on his own side of the bed. Two cups of coffee, one basket of bread and a plate of eggs. He’s not particularly hungry himself, but he might grab a bite. For the sake of Vincent’s company, more than anything. If Vincent’s willing to provide that in return.

Comments

[justcrywolf]

Claude’s voice sends shivers down his back and he gasps, forcing down another breath with effort. It’s almost too much of everything; of stimulation, of stretching, of scents and touch and cock. He’s just about to speak, probably gibberish with little to zero meaning, when Claude pulls out, the movement careful but also unmistakably unyielding. Then, he pushes back in again. Harder. And there are no more coherent words to be had. Instead, his voice comes out as a moan, loud and unrestricted, his muscles working to keep up with the quickening pace.

He could easily attempt to control the rhythm somehow – to slow them down, perhaps or to tighten his muscles enough to send Claude hurtling towards the edge. But he doesn’t, not today (some… other day?). It’s perfectly clear that they’re both waiting to get off, not to have sophisticated arsefucking. That, and he can’t even think to plan ahead that far. Claude’s fucking him at just the right angle, the head and length of his cock pressing against his prostrate with every thrust and it’s making his head spin. Waves of pleasure at almost even intervals, the thickness of Claude’s cock as he pushes into his arse…

Another moan, another gasping breath. It’s so good. A fucking brilliant mix of orgasmic, burning pleasure and just that hint of roughness and pain that makes him feel alive. It’s rarely like this, truthfully. This perfect blend of casual danger and a greater foundation of safety is completely surreal; might be cliché and girlish to think so, but in many ways Claude really is very different from what he’s used to. Different in all the best ways.

[downplaying]

Those moans go straight to his cock. Drawing in a sharp breath, Claude feels his hips jerk violently – the first signs of orgasm, along with the increasing tightness in his balls. He’s not a man who really believes in the notion of romantic sex and had he done so, this entire scenario would probably have disappointed him somewhat. Romantic sex is an invention of Hollywood’s – real life sex is what you make of it and they, Vincent and he, are making something absolutely spectacular of it right now, if you ask him. Right here, bathed in the yellow light of the morning sun. With a groan, he pulls out again. Pushes in. Sets a rhythm that is reaching for the finish line. God, it feels like Heaven. A tiny piece of it, at least.

The bed is creaking something fierce (the downside of having a metal bed) and combined with the sounds the both of them are making at this point, he really should be concerned for the neighbours, but he’s in no state of mind to care, even if someone should decide to come knock on his door. They can go fuck themselves. Kindly.

Vincent’s arse feels hot and tight all around him and Claude is slowly growing dizzy from the pleasure of it. He’s reaching that… point now… Where everything is melting together into a blur of sensation, of heat and tightness, of motion. (Almost) uncontrolled, but never quite. He’s so close. So close to climaxing. Just another few thrusts and… It washes over him soundlessly, his orgasm. Balls tightening and sperm leaking from his cock into the condom, he simply stiffens for a moment, face pressed against the side of Vincent’s neck and all the muscles in his body completely taut from the effort.

[justcrywolf]

He catches on to the signs pretty quickly – Claude’s breathing speeding up next to his ear, the force and pace of his thrusts increasing with every breath. It’s good timing, too, because he’s getting close to the edge. Everything’s starting to blend together in his mind; every sensation, from Claude stretching his arse open and filling him up, pushing against his prostrate, to the friction of his cock, rubbing against the mattress. And Claude’s body on top of his, pressing him down against the bed, the sheer sense of weight and warmth swallowing him up both physically and mentally.

They don’t orgasm at the same time, not as such. That hardly ever happens, at least not for him. It’s close, though. He feels Claude’s cock contracting inside his arse, the implications pushing him the rest of the way and as Claude stills on top of him, his face sweaty and hot next to his neck, he comes against the mattress. It’s a fast, powerful orgasm and he gasps for air, eyes screwed shut and face drawn tightly. Oh, fucking hell. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

“… fuck.”

He breathes in. Breathes out. Notes somewhat distantly how the sheet beneath him has gone damp, sperm cooling on the bed. Probably on his stomach, too. Jesus Christ, he’s going to just lie here now. Until Claude pulls out and he’d better not be quick about it unless he wants Vincent to hobble home.

[downplaying]

Claude’s orgasm is drawn-out, prolonged by the tightness of Vincent’s arse around him, but in the midst of it – he hears Vincent’s exclamation and his laboured breathing, slowly falling into a more even rhythm in time with Claude’s own. As the pleasure dies down, slowly fading out. Becoming an all-encompassing fatigue, all his muscles turning suddenly and almost violently relaxed. Completely relaxed. Breathing in and out at an even pace finally, he simply remains where he is, in place, on top of Vincent. Just managing to keep his entire bodyweight lifted off of Vincent’s back, mostly as a courtesy. The other man will be sore enough without a slipped disc added to the picture.

A few moments pass like that. In silence. Until Claude finally lifts himself up, arms stretched and his own back aching slightly in this new position. He isn’t twenty anymore and at times like this, it shows, too. Carefully, he begins twisting his hips, pulling out of Vincent’s arse slowly – one long, even motion. Nowhere near the force or speed that he’d fucked him with only minutes earlier. Tired as he is, he doesn’t really consider the possibility of Vincent going anywhere, but if he were to… He’d be limping unless Claude showcases the proper amount of care.

One last jerk of his hips and he’s pulled out entirely. Glancing down between them for a brief second before rolling onto his back next to Vincent, he takes in the sight of Vincent’s arse – his arsehole stretched and open. Honestly, this is one of the hottest shags he’s had in a while. God, this was good.

[justcrywolf]

He pulls out slowly, thank God. The gradual loss of physical fulfillment – literally – is both a relief and a pain. Vincent's body is still kind of tight from orgasm and as Claude draws back entirely, he feels the first signs of soreness, his arsehole almost numb. Going by experience, that’ll hurt later today. But who cares? He’s just had the best fuck in months and months. It’s not just about cock and size (though Claude wins out in that category, too) – this was just plain hot.

As Claude lies down next to him, Vincent remains on his stomach, utterly unwilling to move, his muscles feeling limp and unresponsive. His eyes remain shut, the darkness behind his eyelids seemingly seeping through his mind. In ten minutes, he thinks, he may just fall asleep again. Why’s that even happening? One-night-stand, hello?

“Hey,” he says, words a bit slurred. “Going to sleep it off, hope it’s alright.”

After all, if Claude’s expecting visitors, for instance – like a steady boyfriend or another date, who the fuck knows? – a thoroughly naked, well-fucked man sleeping on the bed might just make things awkward. Funnily enough, however, the mental image doesn’t bother him much at all. Hah!

[downplaying]

“No, it’s fine.”

Claude’s own eyes are already beginning to droop, but the condom has started to feel clammy and cold around his cock and his back is still aching from the position he’s all but trundled into. Shifting just a bit irritably, he reaches down with one hand blindly to roll the condom off and crumble it up in his palm before dropping it on the floor next to the bed. On his side, to prevent Vincent from stepping on it once he’s slept it off and thinks it’s time to go home. With a frown, Claude looks to the side at Vincent who’s quickly falling asleep all but on his face, in the same position that Claude fucked him in moments ago. Charming. Actually. Really charming.

Damn.

With a sigh, he turns his head away again. Stares up at the ceiling for a couple of long moments, his body feeling wonderfully sated and relaxed. In a minute or two, he’ll be falling asleep, too – and they’ll provide a wonderful morning exhibition of nudity for whoever is tactless enough to glance in through his bedroom window. Gays in the aftermath. Sounds like a masterpiece. But really, he should have insisted on his usual speech about one-night stands before they got this far. Watching this one walk away is going to be… annoying. Yes, really annoying.