I washed my hair thoroughly. (jade_327) wrote in since_childhood,
I washed my hair thoroughly.
jade_327
since_childhood

  • Location:
  • Mood:
  • Music:

"Sans Amour", standalone

i haven't been in this community, nor have have posted here in ages. i wrote this little standalone in its entirety at work today. something from me is just long overdue. i missed you all. now, skipping the low-budget sappiness, here are the disclaimers and such:

AUTHOR: me, jade_327
TITLE: "Sans Amour" (Without Love)
PAIRING: Pierre and David, David and...someone else. 
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: They didn't need to be in love, Pierre and David. They only needed to want.
DISCLAIMER: Though David and I may possibly be on friendly terms, I still, however, do not own him, or his lover bandmate, Pierre. Sorry.



Sans Amour

The house, nestled somewhere on the outskirts of Montreal, seemed a tad chilly to David as he dressed silently, tip-toeing through his bedroom and rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his amber eyes. It was early morning, still, the sun shone jovially through narrow slits in the blinds that hung from the windows of the room. David, greatly appreciative of his band's four-week hiatus, looked to his bed and smiled adoringly at the sleeping body, situated cozily underneath silken sheets. He, sitting lightly on the bed, insistant on not waking said body, placed a hand gently on his lover's head, and ran his fingers through the soft, raven locks.

"Je'taime, mon cheri", David whispered dreamily before slipping out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen.


He always adored midsummer in Montreal. It was never too hot or too humid and hazy for his liking, but rather, pleasant. Nice. He poured himself a glass of iced tea, which, over the course of this new hiatus, was something that had become routine. It was refreshing, relaxing, and shortly thereafter, he'd traipse into his living trying to balance his glass in his hands, and turn on some silly talkshow.

David flung his ebony hair from his face as he trained his eyes on the televison set before him, occasionally letting out a chuckle or two as he rubbed another hand across his t-shirt clad stomach. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he grinned to no one, in particular.

Eight twenty-nine it was in Montreal. Eight twenty-nine, it was, when a knock came on the door.

He stood, setting his glass on the coffee table, and pulled his jeans upon his hips. David crept to the door, careful to not wake his sleeping lover upstairs. He opened the door slowly, a tiny smirk plastered on his perfect face.

"What do you want?"

"You know that answer already. I'm here at 8:30 every morning...every morning, since the break began."

"It's 8:29," David stated matter-of-factly, with a hand on the door and the other, in his pocket.

"Can I come in or not?"

"Why, certainly. Make yo'self at home, Sir. I do take very kindly to guests, y'know," David cooed in an rather amusing mock-Southern accent.

The other man made his way inside, standing arrogantly in the center of the living room of that quaint house on the tree-lined street. He focused on the same talkshow that was always on David's televsion at this hour, the half-empty glass of tea on the table, the way David always looked so fucking perfect at 8:30 in the morning, fresh out of the shower, and bed, not long before that. But then, David, Pierre concluded, was probably the only person in the whole wide world that could look so stunning, so early and effortlessly.

"Want some tea?" David was halfway to the kitchen when he called out.

"Nothing ever changes with you, does it? No, David, I don't want any tea. I never want tea." A mildly scorned bassist sauntered back to the living room once more.

"Just thought I'd ask. Again. You might've been thirsty or something." His eyes followed the man across the room.

"Why are you prolonging this?"

"Don't I always? Besides, you love me, so it's fine."

"I don't love you, David. You know that. I love fucking you." And David, furrowing his brows and biting down on his pierced lip, thought long and hard about that declaration. Harsh, yes, but he didn't seem to mind, at all.

"Hmm. The feeling is mutual, Pierre." Both men smiled at the prospect of being 'friends with benefits', so to speak. Plenty of benefits.

Pierre stepped closer to David, grabbed him by the waist, and forced David's body to his own, mouths crashing violently against each other's. Pierre, never denying himself the opportunity to have David, cupped said man's ass - his tight, perfect ass - and moaned lustfully onto his kiss-bruised lips. His hands slid into David's jeans, underneath the hem of his boxers...

"Except, wait...," Pierre thought. "David's not wearing any boxers this morning."

Pierre fumbled with the button and zipper of those cursed jeans and finally freed David's growing erection. The jeans fell lifelessly to the bassist's ankles and he stepped out of them skillfully, winking at his friend. David, being stronger than his petite physique ever gave him credit for, forcefully pushed Pierre backward and onto the couch, eagerly clawing at his jeans and succeeding in somehow pulling them down Pierre's legs faster tha Pierre could fully grasp what had happened.

"How long are we going to keep doing this", David breathed into Pierre's ear.

"Forever. I could...I could fuck you forever and never get sick of it." Pierre's body was already trembling; his cock, long since rigid. David towered over Pierre, sucking on the ring that adorned his bottom lip, and stared down at his bandmate. Said mate stared back at David lasciviously with darkened eyes. He reached in between the cushions, as he did every morning, for the small, now near-empty bottle of lotion that had been strategically placed there sometime ago.

"You know," David began. "I was asked why I have that there." He gestured toward the bottle. "I don't believe I ever responded."

Pierre anxiously opened to bottle and squeezed just enough lotion into his hand to suffice. He, under the careful scrutiny of David, coated his erection, moaning blissfully at the contact. David, with his idle hands, massaged himself, taking great pleasure in the way his own fingers felt roaming over his smooth, pale flesh. He exhaled sharply, eyes half-lidded and dark with lust.

"Now? Please?" Pierre nodded in agreeance and David straddled Pierre's legs, shaking all the while. 

"Quiet," he whispered, before easing down onto Pierre's cock, gasping at such wonderful friction. He beckoned himself to adjust to Pierre's length, shuddering and wincing as he inched down further. And when finally in place, he tried so very hard to hold in his whimpers and moans and screams when he began bouncing so rhythmically. David's head fell backwards, hair tickling Pierre's nose, and Pierre's hand glided over the porcelain canvas that was David's body. Said work of art held his mouth agape, gripping Pierre's thighs and, marking them with tiny indentations, as his property.

Pierre, all slick and warm and good, thrust himself deep inside of David, never failing to enjoy immensely the way David felt wrapped around his throbbing erection. David was so tight and hot, that Pierre's vision blurred and the sounds emanating from the television seemed farther and farther away. His fingernails dug into David's hips, turning them an angry, but passionate shade of crimson. And David, still swallowing his maons, slipped a hand around his own cock, and tugged and pulled absent-mindedly. Neither he, nor Pierre were here or there, as their bodies melted into a single mass of pleasure and beads of sweat. Their eyes rolled far back into their heads; breathing, rampant, as neither of them were quite sure just how much longer they could remain silent.

David, breaking his very own rule, moaned out loudly, in fact, almost purred out, as Pierre hit something so deep inside him, so right, and so fucking good, that he, perhaps, just couldn't help himself. His hand restlessly wandered to his inner thighs, squeezing and pinching ever-so-slightly; his cock, again, and to the very tip of it, spreading the precum generously around his shaft.

Pierre only kept panting and licking his lips, occasionally mouthing inaudible thank-yous to David, though David was in a zone far beyond the present. And when Pierre finally gathered enough strength, he leaned forward, biting the back of his friend's neck repeatedly, marking it and kissing the tiny wounds he'd left behind. Teasingly, he swatted David's hand away from his cock, and replaced it with his own, mercilessly stroking and applying just enough pressure to bring tears of pleasure to David's eyes. David, still bouncing, bit down hard on his lip, cursing breathlessly as the metallic taste of his blood seeped slowly into his mouth.

Pierre somehow managed to keep his stroking and thrusting rhythmic...that is, until David's muscles began clenching tightly around his cock. For the first time, Pierre whimpered and groaned, begging and pleading as his eyes suddenly sprang wide-open.

"Oh, GOD! Please, don't ever stop...," he insisted, shakily. David could only resort to hissing "fuck" every few seconds, all the muscles in his body involuntarily constricting, sensitive to the touch. He rode Pierre wildly, tears tracing salty paths down his alabaster cheeks.

They didn't need to be in love, Pierre and David. They only needed to want.

"Pierre...Pierre," David cooed, arching his back beautifully. His orgasm swallowed him whole, enveloping him like a thick blanket. He shook and writhed, contorting his body as hair stuck to his forehead. His hips bucked and heart raced frantically as he choked on his words; profanities tumbling from his lips, broken and incomprehensible. He came intensely, spilling onto his own legs and Pierre's hand, and anything else that may have been in the way.

Pierre, thrusting deeply one last time, came inside of David - far inside David - also arched his back and bucked his hips. He released David's cock from his grip, but not before giving it a final pull, and rubbed David thighs tenderly. He sank into the cushions, smiling and whispering appreciatively. Satisfied.

The two stayed that way for a while, nearly sleeping, but still only teetering on the edges of their dreams. David slid agonizingly slowly off of Pierre, gathering his jeans and dressing himself in front of the television which had remained on, throughout the duration of he and Pierre's early morning rendezvous.

Pierre, reluctant to be outside the confines of David's body, grunted before copying his bandmate by prepearing himself for his deprature.

"What'll become of our mornings when we go back to the studio? And on tour," David quizzed, reminding his friend and an anxious child.

"Who says," Pierre started, as he stood, fastening his belt. "We have to limit ourselves to just morning hours?" They smiled jokingly at each other, still cautious of any loud sounds they might make. 

"You're going now, eh," David questioned, raising a brow. Pierre glanced overhead, mouthing, "Oh, yeah," to his companion. David escorted Pierre to his exit, pressing a finger to his bruised lip and squinting at the sunlight that snuck in the the slit in the door. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, grinning boyishly. And pierre was gone, off to do whatever or whomever he wanted, next. 

David switched off the television, running a hand coolly through his hair as he returned to the bedroom from whence he'd emerged before. A slightly tanned, naked figure lie motionlessly on the bed, this time, sprawled over the sheets, rather than hidden in obscurity, underneath them.

Only one word presented itself to David as he ogled: Spectacular.

And yes, Ali was very much so. 

David peeled out of his shirt and climbed into the bed, next to his lover, snaking his arm delicately around her waist. She smiled wearily, eyelids remaining tightly shut, and she breathed, in a mock-French accent,

"Je'taime, aussi, Dahv."


a/n: i just couldn't help myself. i blame listening to ali's "montreal" repeatedly...and canada.

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

  • 2 comments