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They had met for coffee, and for an hour Corbeau had talked while Lysandre had slowly nursed his cup, and then once the coffee was gone he had stared into it, and only then had he looked up. He was usually frowning, but his frown at that particular moment had been particularly earnest. He rarely made eye contact, probably because he couldn’t actually see where anyone’s eyes ever were—not that he would admit it—so looking approximately at Corbeau’s ear, he finally said, not much above a whisper, “Jacinthe said something to Lebanne but I failed to understand it.”
That, Corbeau had thought at the time, could mean fucking anything.
Lysandre leaned closer. He opened his, mouth, wet his lips, and then, hesitantly, asked, “What is… fisting?”
So really, if you’d put Corbeau’s back against a wall and asked him what he thought he’d be doing with his Wednesday night, he would not have said anything about fisting the dude he’d wanted to fuck since he was sixteen.
It was pretty hard to deny facts, though, and facts were that Lysandre was naked facedown in his bed, arms curled around a pillow, his proud head bowed, the long curve of his back catching the light that shadowed in the whorls and lines of his burn scars. His legs were parted, knees dug into the bed on either side of Corbeau’s thighs, his breathing not yet unsteady but not entirely even either.
There was fisting lube everywhere, because he’d been perhaps overly-liberal with it during prep, so there were spots drying tacky not just around Lysandre’s well-softened hole, pink and winking, but also on the pale, hairless insides of his thighs, up the crack of his ass. Around the time that Corbeau had gotten four fingers in past the knuckle Lysandre had gone limp and breathless, and he had not recovered in the time since.
“You know,” Corbeau said, as he pulled Lysandre’s red hole open with his free hand and hoping his voice came out steadier than it felt, “it’s a good thing I’ve fucked you.”
It took two fingers for Lysandre to respond. “Why?” He sounded dazed, a little hoarse.
“Well.” Two more fingers. Lysandre groaned. Corbeau leaned over him, twisting his hand to wriggle it in past the knuckles, his thumb tucked to his palm. “Because otherwise I don’t think you’d be loose enough for my fist.” And that was even considering their size difference. How Lysandre managed to tense his ass with stress was a question Corbeau couldn’t answer, he could only do his best to loosen the muscle, apparently one fist at a time.
This time, Lysandre took even longer to reply, no doubt because Corbeau had started to push his thumb in and was watching greedily, enjoying the way the thin skin of that well-loosened hole stretched to take him as if Lysandre had been made for it.
“Am I loose enough for your fist?”
Corbeau laughed, turned his hand, and sheathed his fist in a single smooth motion. Lysandre’s words thinned into a sound not far from a breath, tight in his throat.
“Ah,” Lysandre choked, and then, when Corbeau moved, that choked breath turned into a groan. “Ah,” Lysandre said again, shuddering. “Ah.”
It wasn’t so much unlike the first time he’d fisted Philippe. When Corbeau had gotten his hand in, Philippe had gripped the mattress and grunted from deep in his chest and thrusted against the bed, as if that friction could give him what he wanted. He’d whined and whimpered by the time they were done; his cock had strained, veins thick and raised, but he’d not come until Corbeau had reached down to take him in hand and dragged his fingers over the head of his cock.
The difference was that, unlike Philippe, Lysandre was much louder; unlike Philippe, he stayed almost painfully still, what felt like every muscle in his body locked tight and straining with pleasure; unlike Philippe, he did not try to find pleasure where it was not offered, did not beg, only whined and moaned and panted for shocked breath in too-tight lungs.
The main difference was that this was Lysandre, who Corbeau had wanted since he knew what wanting was. This was Lysandre stretched around his fist, Lysandre whose breathing and heartbeat surrounded him. His cock was hard because he was fisting Lysandre, his cunt was wet because he was fisting Lysandre, the bed was wet because he was fisting Lysandre and Lysandre’s big cock was all soft and drippy, drooling, hopeful.
The more Corbeau fucked him, the more Lysandre cried out, his face buried in the pillows and impossible to see from between his spread thighs, the muscles in his legs bunching and tense, until finally he gasped “Corbeau!” and came.
Corbeau stilled, his hand locked in place by the clench of too-tight muscle, but Lysandre shook his head. “Don’t stop. Don’t—please.”
If Corbeau himself whimpered, it was inaudible under the wet slide of his fist as he fucked into Lysandre in one sharp thrust; if he came untouched, it was possible to forget it when Lysandre himself was coming in a great rush of an orgasm that seemed to go on forever, until he was weeping and barely able to lift his hips.
“Okay,” Corbeau finally croaked. “Fuck, yeah, okay. So we’re doing this again. We are definitely doing this again.”