Everything is blurred, blurry vision, colors swirled together and bleeding into each other, fuzzy hearing, as though listening through water. The music pounds a steady beat into his mind, head throbbing in time with the tune. Something tickles his face; the stubble of a beard, the feel of lips and tongue and hot breath bathing his ear. Whispering do you want to leave? Do you want to go back to my house? Alfred nods drunkenly, smelling the alcohol on this man’s breath, stumbling over his feet and shoes and when did this room get so crowded?
He’s only had three glasses of wine. Bitter, burning, blood-red wine.
The cling to each other, or Alfred clings to the man and nuzzles into that silky-soft shirt while the man holds him up, runs his fingers along the sides of his jacket and maybe it’s just the alcohol, but he would swear he can feel those fingers stroking on his very skin, leaving red-hot trails that dig in deep.
He looks like a child and the cab driver eyes them suspiciously, both flushed with alcohol, one giggly-clingy drunk and the other with wandering hands and lips and Alfred wants to melt into those arms, those hands, those fingers that gave him drink and money and this was the first time he’s ever drank more than a sip of alcohol, clutching his mother’s glass at Christmas while she promises a special surprise for her dear little boy.
Matthew sat across the table, staring and poking at his food much the same way Alfred does now, torn between jealousy and disgust and Alfred cuddled into her warmth choking I love you, Mama.
“Oho, someone has kink? No no, cheri, I am not your mother. Although,” Alfred feels lips and stubble curl into a smirk and this man presses a finger to his lips, pushes it in and he sucks on it obscenely while the taxi driver goes bright red, “If you would like, I am a very open man. Shall I indulge your fantasies?”
Hush, hush, Matthew will hear us if you’re not quiet. Good boy, good little baby. Now spread your legs for Mommy. “No,” he says, a bit too quickly, a bit too sharp and that delicious warmth falls back, the finger popping out of his mouth. His head hurts from the outburst. “No, no, uh…” I cost a hundred dollars an hour. They all call me cheap. Maybe I can bump it up to two hundred ‘cause he’s rich. And French.
Alfred wonders whether he’s said that out loud, whether this man knows to pay him. At this moment, it doesn’t matter, because the cab is jolting to a stop and he’s being lifted out, carried like a blushing bride into somewhere bright and glittering and so much richer than him and he feels like such a stain, the scum of the earth in these beautiful walls.
He buries himself in this mystery man’s scent, the sandalwood and rosemary and elegance and hides his dirty face from the world, doesn’t look up until he feels something soft under his head, soft and satin and silk and he’s never fucked any of his clients on a bed like this before. His lips part in a sigh of bliss, his eyes closing so his body can feel.
The man kisses him, leans over to press their lips together and Alfred can taste the wine on his tongue. He arches into the kiss, savoring the softness and sweetness and bitter alcohol burn of him as he allows that tongue to taste him, lapping at the inside of his mouth and tangling with his own, gripping this stranger’s silky haute couture shirt and pulling them together as he feels a hand on the outside of his jeans, sending thrills throughout his body and making him break the kiss with a moan.
Alfred is fairly experienced with men, very experienced with women, but the mere though of having sex with a woman makes vomit and black memories bubble up within him. Even before running away, before making money on his back, his knees, bare to a stranger’s eyes, he was quite notorious at his school. Spending time with Alfred Jones nearly always meant you were going to score, have something to brag about or keep well hidden.
Alfred thinks how loose he was with other students might have been part of the reason for his mother’s suicide, and that thought makes him want to be either as slutty as possible or not slutty at all, to honor her memory and the times she didn’t touch him.
He remembers his first time with another male, cramped in a cleaning closet at the school with a boy whose name he barely remembers with whispers of please, please, help me forget on his tongue. He remembers the night his virginity was taken and torn apart, but he does not like to think about it.
His clothes lie in a heap on the floor, boxers and his precious bomber jacket flung behind a chair somewhere in this lavish bedroom with its silky, satiny sheets and Alfred’s legs are spread wide much like before, this time without anything blocking the view for this man’s hungry eyes. He figures he should feel ashamed for being like this, so wanton, moaning as the man presses kisses to his collarbone and neck and holds his too skinny too young body close, fingers touching and stroking and Alfred lets out an unintelligible garble of sounds that either sounds endearing or intoxicated when they tweak a nipple.
“Would you like me to…?” some of the man’s fingers ghost over his pitifully limp cock, lying there between his spread legs. Alfred shakes his head swiftly; he wants to be in control of his own arousal, not have someone else control it, and he pumps himself a few times, swirling the tips of his fingers around his head and thinks of this man, naked and glistening and fucking him down into the mattress, making his nightmares go away.
Nothing. Alfred pumps some more, faster and more frantic and he lets out a whine as it only gets slightly larger, slightly harder, his fingers not nearly enough in his drunken state. He lets out a pitiful whine, too loud in the silent bedroom, and whimpers slightly. “It’s not getting up…”
The man looks at him, rolling his eyes and smirking and Alfred feels himself flush and try to curl up into himself, away from his embarrassment. He’ll have to go back to his pitiful hole in the wall, drunk and denied both money and sex. He whimpers again and tries to clear the fuzz from his brain, take the blur from his eyes.
“Good God,” he hears from somewhere above him. “You don’t drink much, do you?” A sigh, long and drawn out but lacking malice, more amused than annoyed. The man leans over him and kisses up his collarbone once more, lapping at the flushed skin of his neck. He whispers, breath hot and seductive in his ear, kissing the lobe and nipping at it, “Would you like some help?”
A pause, both of them breathing in the silence and Alfred needs this money, needs it he’ll never have enough money and he swallows the chill creeping up his spine, swallows and nods. Chuckles reach his ears and the man is kissing him everywhere: his chest, his legs, trailing his lips down to his toes and suckling them, kissing the ball of his foot and his heel, his ankle until Alfred is hot and flushed and his toes writhe, curling and uncurling desperately.
The man spreads his legs and laps his tongue over his calf, lifts his limbs and presses his lips to the back of his knee and no one’s ever paid this much attention to Alfred’s body, searched every expanse of skin and curve of what muscles are left to find those places that make his moans real, genuine, not contrived and too eager and the moans of a whore, the way he usually is.
He gets just a little bit harder as those soft, deliciously smooth lips get to his thighs, as his legs are spread even wider and this man is a devil, a devil in an angel’s beautiful skin, lips barely ghosting over that one spot that Alfred needs to have touched, because his face is red and he’s trembling and those lips just stay on his thighs, pressing kisses and nips to their skin and they’re so close, so close and oh god he’s going to make Alfred beg he wouldn’t he can’t he can’t beg dear god-
Finally, finally, the cruelty is over and the man takes Alfred’s cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head and making Alfred jolt and cry out. He feels himself grow harder, feels his whole body go hot and red and he moans, moans out loud at the way that tongue laps all the way up to the head, prods at the slit and makes his defenses crumble until he’s just a squirming, moaning, flushed red and raw mess, a teenager lying back on a too-big too-fancy bed and trying to keep his alcohol blurred head in focus.
When the man pulls back Alfred is breathless, panting and red. He leans over, lips hovering over Alfred’s and he wonders whether the man will kiss him before they fuck. “I want you on your hands and knees,” he murmurs against his swollen lips and Alfred inhales his scent, his expensive cologne and shampoo, swallowing the trembles down. He turns over, feels the man’s body pressed against his back, the fuzz of his stubble and body hair and when did he get naked?
Somewhere in the mush of his mind, Alfred hears the pop of a tube, the sound of a thick liquid squirting out and the sharp scent of artificial strawberry fills his head, makes him nauseous but he has to keep steady or he won’t get paid, won’t have enough money because there’s never enough.
He always had enough money with his mother and brother, but there was too much of everything else.
Fingers, slick and slender probe at his hole and he melts into the touch, mewling as they stretch him, as he spreads his legs farther and arches his back and feels them deep inside him, his loose, used body that has felt the fingers of so many men, so why does this feel so different? Why are his noises genuine and sharp and his face flushed, his whole body lit on fire and every touch making him thrill?
Alfred moans loudly as he feels the man press into him, fill him completely and he’s done this enough so there is no pain, only a slight stretch and gasp and blur of liquor as he revels in the familiar sensation, the feeling of fullness and heat and it’s never felt like this before, never made his mouth open in bliss and his eyes close. He decides it’s all the wine’s doing, despite the fact that the wine almost stopped this from happening.
The man pulls out, pushes back in, begins to fuck him in earnest because you can’t call it making love when they’re strangers and he’s on his knees and trembling and mewling and moaning like a slut, and he sees out of the corners of his eyes the man’s hands, steady and solid on the bed next to him, feels his chest against his back and his cock deep inside him.
He cries out, his body rocking backward and forward with each thrust, his own cock hard and leaking against his skinny stomach. His hair falls, sweaty and sticky against his forehead and he arches his back for a deeper angle, to help this man find the place that will make him scream and- ah, there it is. His cries and moans fill the room, and the man chuckles above him at how loud he is, how whorish and he’s still wearing his glasses, he realizes, he’s crying out and trembling and jolting forward with his fogged-up glasses on.
He feels nauseous.
His head hurts and his body aches and the man is rubbing against his sweet spot with every thrust, every move forward, the obscene sounds of skin on skin adding to the noises he’s making, the grunts from above him. There might be people in the next room, he thinks, but then, there might have been people nearby when he was lying back against cheap leather car seats, pressed against cold glass or a wall in some cheap motel not too far from where he lives.
Back and forth, trying to set up a clumsy rhythm, trying to stop the constant rocking forward and back because he only had three glasses of wine but he feels like he’s drank a whole bottle, and it’s catching up to him even as the man wraps his fingers around his cock and pumps up and down and his noises become less and less loud, more garbled and he’s trying to get the man to stop because if he doesn’t he’s gonna throw up and-
He pushes the man off, ignores his indignant yelp and barely makes it to a trash bin before sinking to his knees and vomiting what meager crumbs he’s managed to eat today, shoulders hunched and head pounding, liquid dribbling down his thighs, sticky and hot.
On his knees for the second time that night, clinging to the trash bin like a child to his mother, like he used to cling to his brother, he vomits and vomits until there’s nothing left and he’s dry heaving, body aching and head split open in pain. He’s never drinking anything again, he’s ruined tonight, ruined ruined he’s made a mess of himself and this man and he just stays there on the soft carpet, clinging to the bin and trying not to cry.
Something soft and silky wraps around his shoulders, a blanket, and he cuddles it around himself, looking down at the floor with red cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. The man brushes sweaty strands of hair from his eyes, delicately pulls off his glasses and wipes the sweat and fog from them, setting them on the floor as another wave of nausea ripples through Alfred’s aching body.
He heaves, hunching over the bin while the man runs his fingers through his hair, soothing his scalp and his mind because he has nothing left to throw up, just the empty pit of his stomach and when he’s done he shudders and trembles, chilled through the blanket to his bones. Not another drop of alcohol, ever again.
“Mon dieu, you act as if you have never touched a glass of wine in your life,” the man murmurs, running his fingers through the sticky strands of Alfred’s hair, not just tossing him naked out on the city streets, something for which he will be eternally grateful.
“Haven’t,” he croaks, a shiver running up his spine. The blanket doesn’t offer much comfort, but it does give a little and he pulls it tight around himself. There’s silence for a moment; Alfred figures the man is absorbing the shock of this and what if he asks his age? Can he trust himself to keep up the lie in this state, as he kneels and shivers and grips the now-filthy trashcan in his hands? “’M sorry,” he murmurs, looking down at his bare thighs, breath hitching the slightest bit.
Warm, strong arms wrap around his shoulder, hold him close and he hears murmuring in French, sweet, soft words so he closes his eyes and lets them wash over him. He’s going to be so hung over in the morning.
“Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot…”
Alfred’s eyes snap open in shock; his head twinges painfully at the sudden movement. It’s that song, that sweet, soft song that his brother used to sing to him and soothe his fears, his all too vivid nightmares, and now it serves to soothe the burn from his throat and his eyes. The man presses a cup of cool, sweet water to his lips and he gulps it greedily, washing the bitter taste of wine and vomit from his tongue.
“Prêtes-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot.”
Alfred sighs and leans back into those warm arms, breathes in that silky hair and nuzzles into the man’s neck. “I like that song,” he murmurs, the shivers and sharp pangs in his body dying down, washed over by the words. “I really like it.” He straightens up, looks down in shame at his naked body, how his hip bones jut out the slightest bit, how he’s no longer hard, his cock pitifully limp, lying there between his legs. “Ugh, sorry about all this crap. I probably ruined your night. I… I’ll just get going. You don’t even have to pay.”
“Ah no, no, cheri,” the man purrs in his ear, holds him close and cuddles with him, and if Alfred weren’t fighting off the last bits of intoxication he would say that there was something like desperation in his tone. “It is late; a pretty boy like yourself wouldn’t last long on the cruel city streets.” He presses a kiss to Alfred’s ear, his fingers rubbing soothing circles through the silky blanket. “Stay, s’il vous plait? I am in need of a bed mate tonight.”
“Dude,” Alfred says flatly, shoving aside all sense of tact, “Did you completely miss the part where I just puked?”
The man chuckles in amusement, those silly Americans and their silly vulgar expressions, and brings him to his feet, letting the blanket fall back down to the floor and leave him bare. “No, no, to sleep, to get some rest,” he lifts a finger to the bridge of Alfred’s nose, stroking it along his cheeks, under his eyes, “These dark circles to not do your complexion justice, you know.”
Alfred considers for a moment, feels something niggling at the back of his mind, something he was supposed to remember… But then he remembers the song, that wonderful, wonderful song, and it pushes aside all concerns. He nods, swallows, allows himself to be guided back to the bed, pulled under the soft comforter and sheets and rests his head against the pillows. His glasses are still there, on the floor by the trash bin, but he can get them tomorrow.
The man falls into bed next to him, his chest against Alfred’s back just like when they were having sex and Alfred turns, buries his face in that muscled chest, allows those strong arms to wrap around him. It’s definitely strange; he’s never had a client ask him to spend the night before. He’s never had his head cradled and stroked, his body held while he vomits his lack of food into a trashcan.
He supposes he can charge more for it when he wakes tomorrow morning, though he certainly can’t charge for the warm feeling in his core.
“Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot,” the man sings, and Alfred sighs in bliss, deciding that even if it’s unorthodox, he can deal with falling asleep with a client, so long as he continues to sing and remind him of home, the part of home he misses so dearly, the part that doesn’t keep him up at night. Alfred’s last thought before the blackness of sleep overtakes him, wrapped in silky, satiny warm sheets, soft pillows and strong arms is, I don’t know his name.
“Pretes-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot.”
I have no clue why I just wrote like, three full pages of smut. I suck at it. On a positive note, I am now no longer embarassed to use the word cock in fanfiction. Yay! :D
For those of you wondering about Arthur, he'll show up, but not for a long time. Not until after, well... ;D You'll see. I promise, more of the babies and Kiku next chapter. I kinda... got carried away with this. Sorry about that. ;_;
Authoranon, that was just beautiful. I'm so glad Francis is kind to Al...hopefully he will continue his kindness? ;3; Ohh, I'm glad Arthur will show up! After what? Hmmm...This story is so interesting and I'm glad you're writing it so well! Can't wait for the next update.
I feel sorry for Kiku, I guess, but this part still makes me so happy, in a bittersweet way. That puts to rest any fears about Francis being a douche-bag, I guess! <3<3<3
This was very beautiful and touching, Francis is the best person on the entire earth. I have the feeling he suspects Alfred's true age, or at least that it's several numbers lower than he says. Oh god, such a kind person, when he comes to know the kind of life Al's been forced to live...;_; Also, good job on the puking thing! Because seriously, there's enough of Perfectly Perfect Sex around here, I'm very glad to see a more realistic take on drunk sex, especially from someone so young and in this context.
And god, Kiku is gonna throw a fit, and sadly, with good reason. What's gonna happen now? I can't wait for the next morning, when he truly sees Francis and his home for the first time (I have to commend you on your descriptions about a club and the people there at night, as well as the ones perceived by an intoxicated mind. There's a general sense of someone from Francis part, but not clearly defined, the same way you don't truly SEE people in the night life).
I have the sinking feeling that it's no coincidence Francis knows that song. And his desperate tone to keep Al close makes me wary. Does he know Matt? Maybe Al's similar looks attracted him? Is Matt still alive? oh God Glad to know Arthur will be showing up! I'm a great admirer of his. Hopefully "that" will happen soon. You little teaseXD
I don't know which is more embarrassing... forgetting I was logged in or not figuring out until hours later that I could delete my own comment *facepalm*
As to the original reply I'd made:
Oooh, I'm loving the way you've been weaving everything together and opening all these other little strands. I always get such an amazing sense of being right there in the moment; your descriptions are so vivid and glossy. I'm almost dreading Alfred going home but so excited to see what's going to happen! My angst senses are tingling but in such a good way. I can't wait to see the next parts.
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Angels 17
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 01:18 am (UTC)(link)Everything is blurred, blurry vision, colors swirled together and bleeding into each other, fuzzy hearing, as though listening through water. The music pounds a steady beat into his mind, head throbbing in time with the tune. Something tickles his face; the stubble of a beard, the feel of lips and tongue and hot breath bathing his ear. Whispering do you want to leave? Do you want to go back to my house? Alfred nods drunkenly, smelling the alcohol on this man’s breath, stumbling over his feet and shoes and when did this room get so crowded?
He’s only had three glasses of wine. Bitter, burning, blood-red wine.
The cling to each other, or Alfred clings to the man and nuzzles into that silky-soft shirt while the man holds him up, runs his fingers along the sides of his jacket and maybe it’s just the alcohol, but he would swear he can feel those fingers stroking on his very skin, leaving red-hot trails that dig in deep.
He looks like a child and the cab driver eyes them suspiciously, both flushed with alcohol, one giggly-clingy drunk and the other with wandering hands and lips and Alfred wants to melt into those arms, those hands, those fingers that gave him drink and money and this was the first time he’s ever drank more than a sip of alcohol, clutching his mother’s glass at Christmas while she promises a special surprise for her dear little boy.
Matthew sat across the table, staring and poking at his food much the same way Alfred does now, torn between jealousy and disgust and Alfred cuddled into her warmth choking I love you, Mama.
“Oho, someone has kink? No no, cheri, I am not your mother. Although,” Alfred feels lips and stubble curl into a smirk and this man presses a finger to his lips, pushes it in and he sucks on it obscenely while the taxi driver goes bright red, “If you would like, I am a very open man. Shall I indulge your fantasies?”
Hush, hush, Matthew will hear us if you’re not quiet. Good boy, good little baby. Now spread your legs for Mommy. “No,” he says, a bit too quickly, a bit too sharp and that delicious warmth falls back, the finger popping out of his mouth. His head hurts from the outburst. “No, no, uh…” I cost a hundred dollars an hour. They all call me cheap. Maybe I can bump it up to two hundred ‘cause he’s rich. And French.
Alfred wonders whether he’s said that out loud, whether this man knows to pay him. At this moment, it doesn’t matter, because the cab is jolting to a stop and he’s being lifted out, carried like a blushing bride into somewhere bright and glittering and so much richer than him and he feels like such a stain, the scum of the earth in these beautiful walls.
He buries himself in this mystery man’s scent, the sandalwood and rosemary and elegance and hides his dirty face from the world, doesn’t look up until he feels something soft under his head, soft and satin and silk and he’s never fucked any of his clients on a bed like this before. His lips part in a sigh of bliss, his eyes closing so his body can feel.
The man kisses him, leans over to press their lips together and Alfred can taste the wine on his tongue. He arches into the kiss, savoring the softness and sweetness and bitter alcohol burn of him as he allows that tongue to taste him, lapping at the inside of his mouth and tangling with his own, gripping this stranger’s silky haute couture shirt and pulling them together as he feels a hand on the outside of his jeans, sending thrills throughout his body and making him break the kiss with a moan.
Alfred is fairly experienced with men, very experienced with women, but the mere though of having sex with a woman makes vomit and black memories bubble up within him. Even before running away, before making money on his back, his knees, bare to a stranger’s eyes, he was quite notorious at his school. Spending time with Alfred Jones nearly always meant you were going to score, have something to brag about or keep well hidden.
Alfred thinks how loose he was with other students might have been part of the reason for his mother’s suicide, and that thought makes him want to be either as slutty as possible or not slutty at all, to honor her memory and the times she didn’t touch him.
Angels 18
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 01:23 am (UTC)(link)His clothes lie in a heap on the floor, boxers and his precious bomber jacket flung behind a chair somewhere in this lavish bedroom with its silky, satiny sheets and Alfred’s legs are spread wide much like before, this time without anything blocking the view for this man’s hungry eyes. He figures he should feel ashamed for being like this, so wanton, moaning as the man presses kisses to his collarbone and neck and holds his too skinny too young body close, fingers touching and stroking and Alfred lets out an unintelligible garble of sounds that either sounds endearing or intoxicated when they tweak a nipple.
“Would you like me to…?” some of the man’s fingers ghost over his pitifully limp cock, lying there between his spread legs. Alfred shakes his head swiftly; he wants to be in control of his own arousal, not have someone else control it, and he pumps himself a few times, swirling the tips of his fingers around his head and thinks of this man, naked and glistening and fucking him down into the mattress, making his nightmares go away.
Nothing. Alfred pumps some more, faster and more frantic and he lets out a whine as it only gets slightly larger, slightly harder, his fingers not nearly enough in his drunken state. He lets out a pitiful whine, too loud in the silent bedroom, and whimpers slightly. “It’s not getting up…”
The man looks at him, rolling his eyes and smirking and Alfred feels himself flush and try to curl up into himself, away from his embarrassment. He’ll have to go back to his pitiful hole in the wall, drunk and denied both money and sex. He whimpers again and tries to clear the fuzz from his brain, take the blur from his eyes.
“Good God,” he hears from somewhere above him. “You don’t drink much, do you?” A sigh, long and drawn out but lacking malice, more amused than annoyed. The man leans over him and kisses up his collarbone once more, lapping at the flushed skin of his neck. He whispers, breath hot and seductive in his ear, kissing the lobe and nipping at it, “Would you like some help?”
A pause, both of them breathing in the silence and Alfred needs this money, needs it he’ll never have enough money and he swallows the chill creeping up his spine, swallows and nods. Chuckles reach his ears and the man is kissing him everywhere: his chest, his legs, trailing his lips down to his toes and suckling them, kissing the ball of his foot and his heel, his ankle until Alfred is hot and flushed and his toes writhe, curling and uncurling desperately.
The man spreads his legs and laps his tongue over his calf, lifts his limbs and presses his lips to the back of his knee and no one’s ever paid this much attention to Alfred’s body, searched every expanse of skin and curve of what muscles are left to find those places that make his moans real, genuine, not contrived and too eager and the moans of a whore, the way he usually is.
He gets just a little bit harder as those soft, deliciously smooth lips get to his thighs, as his legs are spread even wider and this man is a devil, a devil in an angel’s beautiful skin, lips barely ghosting over that one spot that Alfred needs to have touched, because his face is red and he’s trembling and those lips just stay on his thighs, pressing kisses and nips to their skin and they’re so close, so close and oh god he’s going to make Alfred beg he wouldn’t he can’t he can’t beg dear god-
Finally, finally, the cruelty is over and the man takes Alfred’s cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head and making Alfred jolt and cry out. He feels himself grow harder, feels his whole body go hot and red and he moans, moans out loud at the way that tongue laps all the way up to the head, prods at the slit and makes his defenses crumble until he’s just a squirming, moaning, flushed red and raw mess, a teenager lying back on a too-big too-fancy bed and trying to keep his alcohol blurred head in focus.
Angels 19
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 01:27 am (UTC)(link)Somewhere in the mush of his mind, Alfred hears the pop of a tube, the sound of a thick liquid squirting out and the sharp scent of artificial strawberry fills his head, makes him nauseous but he has to keep steady or he won’t get paid, won’t have enough money because there’s never enough.
He always had enough money with his mother and brother, but there was too much of everything else.
Fingers, slick and slender probe at his hole and he melts into the touch, mewling as they stretch him, as he spreads his legs farther and arches his back and feels them deep inside him, his loose, used body that has felt the fingers of so many men, so why does this feel so different? Why are his noises genuine and sharp and his face flushed, his whole body lit on fire and every touch making him thrill?
Alfred moans loudly as he feels the man press into him, fill him completely and he’s done this enough so there is no pain, only a slight stretch and gasp and blur of liquor as he revels in the familiar sensation, the feeling of fullness and heat and it’s never felt like this before, never made his mouth open in bliss and his eyes close. He decides it’s all the wine’s doing, despite the fact that the wine almost stopped this from happening.
The man pulls out, pushes back in, begins to fuck him in earnest because you can’t call it making love when they’re strangers and he’s on his knees and trembling and mewling and moaning like a slut, and he sees out of the corners of his eyes the man’s hands, steady and solid on the bed next to him, feels his chest against his back and his cock deep inside him.
He cries out, his body rocking backward and forward with each thrust, his own cock hard and leaking against his skinny stomach. His hair falls, sweaty and sticky against his forehead and he arches his back for a deeper angle, to help this man find the place that will make him scream and- ah, there it is. His cries and moans fill the room, and the man chuckles above him at how loud he is, how whorish and he’s still wearing his glasses, he realizes, he’s crying out and trembling and jolting forward with his fogged-up glasses on.
He feels nauseous.
His head hurts and his body aches and the man is rubbing against his sweet spot with every thrust, every move forward, the obscene sounds of skin on skin adding to the noises he’s making, the grunts from above him. There might be people in the next room, he thinks, but then, there might have been people nearby when he was lying back against cheap leather car seats, pressed against cold glass or a wall in some cheap motel not too far from where he lives.
Back and forth, trying to set up a clumsy rhythm, trying to stop the constant rocking forward and back because he only had three glasses of wine but he feels like he’s drank a whole bottle, and it’s catching up to him even as the man wraps his fingers around his cock and pumps up and down and his noises become less and less loud, more garbled and he’s trying to get the man to stop because if he doesn’t he’s gonna throw up and-
He pushes the man off, ignores his indignant yelp and barely makes it to a trash bin before sinking to his knees and vomiting what meager crumbs he’s managed to eat today, shoulders hunched and head pounding, liquid dribbling down his thighs, sticky and hot.
On his knees for the second time that night, clinging to the trash bin like a child to his mother, like he used to cling to his brother, he vomits and vomits until there’s nothing left and he’s dry heaving, body aching and head split open in pain. He’s never drinking anything again, he’s ruined tonight, ruined ruined he’s made a mess of himself and this man and he just stays there on the soft carpet, clinging to the bin and trying not to cry.
Angels 20
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 01:32 am (UTC)(link)He heaves, hunching over the bin while the man runs his fingers through his hair, soothing his scalp and his mind because he has nothing left to throw up, just the empty pit of his stomach and when he’s done he shudders and trembles, chilled through the blanket to his bones. Not another drop of alcohol, ever again.
“Mon dieu, you act as if you have never touched a glass of wine in your life,” the man murmurs, running his fingers through the sticky strands of Alfred’s hair, not just tossing him naked out on the city streets, something for which he will be eternally grateful.
“Haven’t,” he croaks, a shiver running up his spine. The blanket doesn’t offer much comfort, but it does give a little and he pulls it tight around himself. There’s silence for a moment; Alfred figures the man is absorbing the shock of this and what if he asks his age? Can he trust himself to keep up the lie in this state, as he kneels and shivers and grips the now-filthy trashcan in his hands? “’M sorry,” he murmurs, looking down at his bare thighs, breath hitching the slightest bit.
Warm, strong arms wrap around his shoulder, hold him close and he hears murmuring in French, sweet, soft words so he closes his eyes and lets them wash over him. He’s going to be so hung over in the morning.
“Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot…”
Alfred’s eyes snap open in shock; his head twinges painfully at the sudden movement. It’s that song, that sweet, soft song that his brother used to sing to him and soothe his fears, his all too vivid nightmares, and now it serves to soothe the burn from his throat and his eyes. The man presses a cup of cool, sweet water to his lips and he gulps it greedily, washing the bitter taste of wine and vomit from his tongue.
“Prêtes-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot.”
Alfred sighs and leans back into those warm arms, breathes in that silky hair and nuzzles into the man’s neck. “I like that song,” he murmurs, the shivers and sharp pangs in his body dying down, washed over by the words. “I really like it.” He straightens up, looks down in shame at his naked body, how his hip bones jut out the slightest bit, how he’s no longer hard, his cock pitifully limp, lying there between his legs. “Ugh, sorry about all this crap. I probably ruined your night. I… I’ll just get going. You don’t even have to pay.”
Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 01:38 am (UTC)(link)“Dude,” Alfred says flatly, shoving aside all sense of tact, “Did you completely miss the part where I just puked?”
The man chuckles in amusement, those silly Americans and their silly vulgar expressions, and brings him to his feet, letting the blanket fall back down to the floor and leave him bare. “No, no, to sleep, to get some rest,” he lifts a finger to the bridge of Alfred’s nose, stroking it along his cheeks, under his eyes, “These dark circles to not do your complexion justice, you know.”
Alfred considers for a moment, feels something niggling at the back of his mind, something he was supposed to remember… But then he remembers the song, that wonderful, wonderful song, and it pushes aside all concerns. He nods, swallows, allows himself to be guided back to the bed, pulled under the soft comforter and sheets and rests his head against the pillows. His glasses are still there, on the floor by the trash bin, but he can get them tomorrow.
The man falls into bed next to him, his chest against Alfred’s back just like when they were having sex and Alfred turns, buries his face in that muscled chest, allows those strong arms to wrap around him. It’s definitely strange; he’s never had a client ask him to spend the night before. He’s never had his head cradled and stroked, his body held while he vomits his lack of food into a trashcan.
He supposes he can charge more for it when he wakes tomorrow morning, though he certainly can’t charge for the warm feeling in his core.
“Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot,” the man sings, and Alfred sighs in bliss, deciding that even if it’s unorthodox, he can deal with falling asleep with a client, so long as he continues to sing and remind him of home, the part of home he misses so dearly, the part that doesn’t keep him up at night. Alfred’s last thought before the blackness of sleep overtakes him, wrapped in silky, satiny warm sheets, soft pillows and strong arms is, I don’t know his name.
“Pretes-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot.”
I have no clue why I just wrote like, three full pages of smut. I suck at it. On a positive note, I am now no longer embarassed to use the word cock in fanfiction. Yay! :D
For those of you wondering about Arthur, he'll show up, but not for a long time. Not until after, well... ;D You'll see. I promise, more of the babies and Kiku next chapter. I kinda... got carried away with this. Sorry about that. ;_;
Comments? Concrit?
Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 03:06 am (UTC)(link)Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 03:58 am (UTC)(link)But that song? Hmm....
Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 04:39 am (UTC)(link)Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 02:24 pm (UTC)(link)Also, good job on the puking thing! Because seriously, there's enough of Perfectly Perfect Sex around here, I'm very glad to see a more realistic take on drunk sex, especially from someone so young and in this context.
And god, Kiku is gonna throw a fit, and sadly, with good reason. What's gonna happen now? I can't wait for the next morning, when he truly sees Francis and his home for the first time (I have to commend you on your descriptions about a club and the people there at night, as well as the ones perceived by an intoxicated mind. There's a general sense of someone from Francis part, but not clearly defined, the same way you don't truly SEE people in the night life).
I have the sinking feeling that it's no coincidence Francis knows that song. And his desperate tone to keep Al close makes me wary. Does he know Matt? Maybe Al's similar looks attracted him? Is Matt still alive? oh God
Glad to know Arthur will be showing up! I'm a great admirer of his. Hopefully "that" will happen soon. You little teaseXD
Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 04:33 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 02:36 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 04:35 pm (UTC)(link)Nah, it's France/America. :D England doesn't come in till much later, and not as a love interest.
Re: Angels 21
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 11:32 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Angels 21 Op! No one saw that de anon >>;
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 09:29 pm (UTC)(link)As to the original reply I'd made:
Oooh, I'm loving the way you've been weaving everything together and opening all these other little strands. I always get such an amazing sense of being right there in the moment; your descriptions are so vivid and glossy. I'm almost dreading Alfred going home but so excited to see what's going to happen! My angst senses are tingling but in such a good way. I can't wait to see the next parts.