wakey wakey

[maliceaforesock]

morning after






┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ a meme
→ COMMENT WITH YOUR CHARACTER'S NAME, FANDOM, AND PREFERENCE.
→ PICK A CHARACTER YOU WANT TO TAG AND HIT UP RNG (01-10), OR CHOOSE A SCENE OF YOUR OWN.
→ PLAY NICE; NO WANK, FLAMES, OR GENERAL HUMBUGGERY.
( keep in mind that sexual scenarios are the basis of this meme! please enter with caution )
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ the scenarios

① BREAKFAST IN BED;
your partner is up and about -- maybe dressed, maybe not -- and in the kitchen. what are they making you? could it be... grilled cheese?

② HIT ME BABY;
they're such a peaceful sleeper. a peaceful, sexy sleeper. actually there's too much of that sleeping happening. why don't you wake the up, world's kindest alarm?

③ ESCAPE FROM AZKABED;
you wake up to find they're rummaging about for their clothes, about to leave. why the rush, can't you convince them to stay?

④ THE AFTERNOON AFTER;
and the evening, maybe even the morning after after... hours have passed but you just can't leave each other! or maybe one of you just won't...

⑤ HANGOVER FROM HELL;
there's a tiger in the closet, a baby in the bathroom, and a total stranger curled up beside you. who is this person beside you, smelling of tequila and regret? do they know any more about what, or who, went down than you do?

⑥ WET AND WILD;
don't feel too lonely waking up by yourself -- the shower's on and the sound of water falling is mighty inviting. why don't you get cleaned up -- or down and dirty all over again?

⑦ I'LL SLEEP WHEN I DIE;
sleep? what is this sleep thing you speak of? dawn's breaking and neither of you have gotten a wink, or want one. who's ready for round xxx?

⑧ A BITTER PILL;
turns out the reason you scored wasn't your sparkling wit and magnetic confidence. your partner had an ulterior motive -- they already knew it and you're about to. recon? revenge? rebound? tag and find out, if you can handle the truth!

⑨ THIS ISN'T MINE;
that sleepy person in your living room had a great night -- with your roommate. well, might as well get to know each other while you're both there, right? ... right?

⑩ WILD CARD;
roll more than once and combine scenarios, choose your favorite, or make up your own!

Comments

[cemarche]

Nom de dieu de merde.

[ the cursing doesn't help the hangover-- ah, had it been? drugs. certainly drugs, but perhaps alcohol, after a certain point one never remembers-- and in fact, the way the words crack up his throat to ring in his head only make Serge feel worse. so he curses again. maybe it's masochism, or guilt. ]

Putian, [ he hisses into the pillow under his face that smells like cologne, something with enough pine trees in it to make it vaguely nauseating. he tries swearing in english. ] Mother fucking fuck-- [ but that's not better, so it ends in a groan. Serge gropes one hand out across the bed, displacing sheets before finding skin.

warm, promising.

... ah, a little larger than he expected.

is that a nipple against his palm? a very large, flat-chested woman. he has had worse; large has its comforts. serge lifts his head to the left despite the protests of his hangover and squints. the room is gloomy, bienvenu, no surprises, but not so dark that he cannot see that his hand is gently cupping MM's chest.

that would, at least, explain the cologne. ]

god bless u

[milkpunch]

[ The room is gloomy, and his head is still soggy from the booze-soaking from the night before. The combo is probably the only thing that got him to sleep in the first place, but it's doing nothing to keep him there. He remembers blearily breathing through a wave of nausea...an hour ago? two hours? strong enough to wake him up, but not quite as strong as the comfort that his heavy limbs and Monique's long, steady breathing affords him. The nausea passes, and the swell of relief as it does is enough to send him back to sleep, like the whole thing was a dream. 

[ Doesn't feel so dreamy when he wakes up again with the feeling of a knife pushing through his temple. 

[ His chest sinks with a long sigh under the touch, his own hand curling up to card between Frenchie's fingers. Eyes closed, ears not quite connected to his brain, Milk gladly takes them as Monique's fingers--at least until he brushes up that wrist and arm and meets coarser, thicker hair than he expects. Milk sucks all that air he sighed out right back in. 

[ Slurry: ] Y'fuckin kidding me? 

*chef's kiss*

[cemarche]

[ Serge watches the dark fingers slide through his own and somehow, you know, he cannot find it in himself to care. they've seen some weird shit-- another man's fingers touching his own with loving care seems neither here nor there. but MM's words, when they come, those make him wince. ] Parlé doucement, [ he groans, dropping his head back to the pillow. is it worth moving his arm? no. he tries not to focus on how the man's nipple is a little hard bud. ]

My head is going to come apart. What in the good fuck did we drink? Did you pour us the blue container, MM, I told you never the blue container.

[ merde he wants to throw up, but he won't. he won't because to throw up he would have to move and if he moved, he would certainly throw up. so serge will lay here, very still, until he dies. ]

[milkpunch]

Yeah. How'd you find so many different kindsa blue tupperware pitchers? [ His fingers hook idly in Frenchie's elbow, the other hand coming up to scrub into his temples. ] I picked the one that did smell like a litter box. That's a nasty grab bag, Frenchie. 

[ His free hand drifts to check--yeah. Boxers on, but--yeah. Sticky. Milk hisses, reaches out for his phone--but obviously, it's not on his bed stand charging. He isn't home. He didn't plan for this. Wherever his pants are, that's where his phone is. ] Fuck this. We're springing for a minifridge. Get up, French. Get up.

[cemarche]

They come as a set, you know, [ Serge snaps as well as his headache will allow, ] the ones with the lids. This is not my fault for liking the lids. Who says 'oh, this one smells the least like the asshole of a cat, let's drink it'?

[ his little distillation experiments never smell charming but they do tend to get worse before getting better. considering the description, Serge assumes they drank something unfinished with quite possibly more than a middling toxicity but seeing as they are both alive, somewhere safe enough, and only partially naked--alls well that ends well.

he groans at the tone in MM's voice and pulls his arm away, crawling to the edge of the mattress to stare down at the floor through the pounding of his eyeballs. one foot down and then the other because he knows when to push MM and when not to, and he swings himself upright. it is lucky there is a wastebin near the edge of the bed--it is just unlucky that when Serge throws up, he misses it completely. ]

That's better. [ he wipes his mouth with his hand and stands. his own briefs are not sticky but his badly wrinkled tshirt is too short to cover the morning salute that not even his hangover has the power to suppress. stumbling a few feet to a small chair and nearby lamp, MM's trousers are peeled from over the lampshade. ] Voici, MM. [ he tosses the garment toward the bed. now to find his own. ]

[milkpunch]

[ Really, Serge? Really? Milk doesn't investigate the mess yet, but just the sound tells him that the garbage can served a more decorative than practical purpose just now. He slides to the opposite edge of the bed to sit up carefully, cradling his head on the side farthest from the sick smell. He reaches blindly for his jeans when he hears his belt buckle jangle, fishes his phone out to check (messages, email alerts from colleagues he hasn't talked too in too long, lawyerly missives, spam) the time--

[ And it is still just under an hour before sun up. ]
...French. [ Rumbled as he stands up, this time setting his phone neatly on the bedstand. MM reaches out a hand, flicks his fingers for Frenchie to stand up too. ] C'mon. C'mere.

[cemarche]

[ Serge looks up at MM from the chair he's fallen into at the sound of his name and behind his lips he licks his teeth. his mouth, it is not so bad. not as bad as the fire of the hangover behind his eyes.

there is hesitation as he pushes himself up and shuffles across the floor in socks that have seen better days. he turns slightly to the side as he comes, presenting a smaller target, oui?--just in case MM is in the mood to give some retaliation for the blue tupperware. this morning is not the morning to be punched. ]

We all make mistakes, eh? But we lived. What does not kill us makes us stronger. [ there's a crooked smile on Serge's face now that he's within touching distance. ]

[milkpunch]

Thanks for the Sunday school lesson. [ No smile back, but no ire either. He doesn't have space in his head for that kind of noisy feeling. Instead, Milk holds up one finger, sets it gently to the side of Frenchie's chin and presses--just turn that mouth the other way. The other hand tugs at the hem of Frenchie's shirt, lifts just enough to tut over what some might call a miraculous instance of morning wood. ] Man, do you ever quit? 

[cemarche]

[ eyes widen and then narrow as that finger comes up... and redirects his breath. serge lets his face be turned to the side, c'est juste. but then MM's knuckles brush his stomach and he sucks in a sharp breath.

no, no he takes it back. his mouth is no good. Serge clamps his lips closed. at least he will not get hit--MM's fists are motherfuckers. he likes to backhand as an opening parlay.

Serge shrugs at the question and his eyes drift back to the other. he and MM, what they have is something like a small, fragile vessel near a rocky shore with no lighthouse in sight. sometimes they fight. sometimes they drink until a hand ends up on a nipple. ] It is... just biology. [ he wets his lips and thinks of Jean-Paul Sarte.

not that it helps his biology. ]

[milkpunch]

Uh-huh. The biology of teenagers, college students, newlyweds, and old men who live much healthier lives than you or me. [ The hand near his jaw shifts, thumb pressing at the cleft of Frenchie's chin and fingers splaying down the side of his neck. Milk's forearm settles against his chest to make him turn--like dancing--till his shoulders meet Milk's chest, ear sits neatly under Milk's mouth, balance jostles as Milk folds one leg back up onto the bed and gently drags Frenchie along with. ] Yoga, sleep, plenty of sun, and long, long, walks from the beach house down to the beach. 

[cemarche]

[ it is hard, trying to do this dance when your head is throbbing and you are now worried that your breath might be classified as a corrosive substance. MM makes it easy but then that is calling water wet--a particular man moving pieces into a particular order is no great challenge. Serge makes himself as easy to move as possible.

he keeps his shoulders close to that warm chest, more complicit now that he knows there will be no punching. ] I do not like doing any of those things, [ he mutters, sinking back, ] yoga is for yuppie american women who enjoy cultural appropriation for the sake of putting overpriced clothing and drinks made of grass on their social media accounts.

[ ah, was that the point? Serge turns his head up toward Milk only to divert it at the last moment. ] I do not think erections have anything to do with sunshine.

[milkpunch]

[ No laughter, no happiness, but there's unmistakable fondness when he presses his mouth behind the hinge of Frenchie's jaw. He hums, reaches his free hand out to brace against the mattress as Milk presses him down. ] I'm calling you a freak. Just take the compliment and put your face down.

[ A true romantic: he'll even drag a pillow down to smother your breath in. ]

[cemarche]

[ the press of mouth to his neck makes Serge's skin draw close but the distraction doesn't last long enough. he shoves the pillow away and rolls onto his back. ] Tu con, [ the french is sneering, because that is what french is good for ] tu veux ce jeune, yoga, bite de plage, eh? You suck at compliments.

[ his hand smacks down on the lingering pillow and shoves it back at MM. ] Like you are Monsieur Mouthwash this morning.

[milkpunch]

[ Milk snaps the pillow out of Frenchie's hand and flings it over the--fuck, over the wrong side of the bed. Whatever. It's not like they need it. A palm drops heavily next to Frenchie's head, hips heavily against his. ] You want me to try again? Oh, my lord, I find nothing more titillating than a hangover from hell and my best guy barfing up battery acid over the side of the bed in the morning. 

You really are a catch. [ His free hand pushes between them, also a little heavy with the way he drags a fist up and around Frenchie's cock through his briefs. ] 

[cemarche]

[ there is something witty to say in reply, there are many somethings on Serge's tongue but the pressure around his dick stops all of them. teeth clack together and the grunt that makes it past his lips sounds like agreement but then even had it not, his hips are rolling up into the hand on him.

MM fists are motherfuckers, yes?

fingers bite into the wrist snug between them but Serge doesn't pull MM's hand away, he only holds onto it. there is a quiet debate going on in his pounding skull but in the end it is one he always loses. they will never be stable, he and MM. they are too much like fuse and fire, non? so why not.

Serge arches beneath MM's heavier frame, grinding himself upward in invitation. ]

[milkpunch]

Yeah, that's what I figured. [ Frenchie arches up, and Milk backs away. Raises his hips and lowers so that he's resting on his elbow, mouth bristling against Frenchie's jaw again. Monsieur Mouthwash indeed, but hopefully some of that can be forgiven in his palm. ] Face down, Frenchie. Come on. Ain't got it in me to toss you around right now.

[cemarche]

[ Serge breathes roughly in and out of his nose. ]

Enfoiré, [ he grumbles after a moment, unwilling to reject the hand on his cock in order to belabor the point of how he feels like a whore, being ordered onto his stomach. the hand is too good and the likeness to a whore, well. perhaps he would not go so far but he is never very careful with his touches. ] You would not like what happened if you tossed me around anyway, [ Serge says, muttering as he twists around on the bed, rolling over in the way that keeps the pressure where it's important.

he does still and look back over his shoulder. ] No more pillows. My gun is around here somewhere. Don't make me find it.

[milkpunch]

[ Frenchie can hate the order as much as he needs to. For MM, it makes everything easier. Easier to stretch his arm up over Frenchie's head and hang his own head down, mouth brushing the crown of French's head. Easier to hug the tangle of wires and weed below him tight, nested in the curve of MM's torso and the cradle of his hips. Easier to find a natural, smooth jack when his fingers slip under the waistband and wrap around Frenchie's cock. ] 

I got your gun right here, cowboy.  

[ Like this, it's easy to tell that Milk's biology isn't running quite as hot as Frenchie's this morning. His hips roll with the root-to-tip strokes, but this early, this hungover, every inch pressed against Frenchie is soft. ]

[cemarche]

[ Serge's outside knee slides up against the mussed bedding to keep space for MM's hand to work in even as he slaps MM's shoulder for the bad, terrible joke. the abuse is distracted, though, light, and his fingers have better things to do; they fall and curl into the fitted sheet. of all mornings, on this one he needs an anchor.

Serge's body moves back into MM for a moment with a matching roll and upward grind of hips but while his cock is happy to be awake, his stomach? not so much. so he stills under the weight and breathes through his nose, letting the other man work him. there is no hardness against his backside but MM is warm, and heavy, and his hand is very nice--there is no need for a matching erection to know that MM is enjoying himself. it is good. lazy, comfortable. Serge's eyes drop closed for the long strokes of his friend's callused hand and the pleasure slowly creeps under his skin, shifting his focus away from his unsettled insides. even his headache feels more distant. ] C'est bon, [ he murmurs. his shoulder blades press against MM's chest and then sink back again. ]

[milkpunch]

[ He is enjoying himself. The way Serge moves when he moves--Milk bows his head into the crook of Frenchie's neck, hand slowing and arm tightening over his waist. ] Parle moi. [ His accent is rough, he doesn't know much, but he can understand more than he speaks and god it's nice to hear. Like being someplace else. Any place else. But a little sun and a lot of sleep and Serge pushing up into him like that, that would be just fine. 

[ MM grazes up his neck, coarse beard and soft mouth and teeth scraping over his ear. ] Parle moi, Serge, c'mon...

[cemarche]

[ merde, why must MM ask like that? the french, his real name--these things that are never made a point of normally, now they make Serge's skin feel tight. they make him needy. they make him want things. ]

Plus vite s'il vous plait. J'ai besoin de plus. [MM finds his ear and Serge whines against the sheets. ] Please, [ he repeats in english, his hips jerking forward to try and find a renewed pace, ] please, MM, more. Faster. Ne me fais pas supplier, connard. [ his hand releases the sheets and jumps to find the back of MM's warm neck, to hold him close. even the necklace that bites against Serge's palm is warm from the man's body. ] Je ne peux pas supporter d'aller lentement maintenant. Je vais mourir.

[milkpunch]

What's that they say? What doesn't kill us...? [ He's teasing, if the tone and smile twisting down the side of Frenchie's neck are any indicators. Even so, it's only one more sticky-slow pass (thumb running a hard line up his shaft, palm smearing over the tip before twisting back down) before Milk gives him the pace he's asking for. Even so, the skin under Frenchie's palm prickles, soft muscles winding tighter as he pulls Frenchie's hips back into himself. ] You can beg. Just a little. 

[cemarche]

[ the hand on his cock robs him of any decent retort and Serge just groans, open-mouthed, against the sweat-sour sheets. his hips go with the pressure of MM's tug; it is increasingly easy to be pliable when the twisting heat in his gut is more incessant than his unstable stomach. with the new pace he begins to move again, little shudders of motion pushing him back if only so that he can thrust forward. ] Goddamnit, MM, [ nothing but gasps, ] fucking harder. S'il te plaît!

[ he doesn't have fingernails, which is better for MM as Serge curls his fingers down against skin. ]

[milkpunch]

[ Faster-harder takes concentration. His breath rushes, supporting arm drops to scoop under Frenchie on one of those wiggles back and forth and wrap from his ribs to his shoulders, pinning him back. Faster, harder, fist moving quick where his body takes up a slow roll in rhythm with his deep draws from the hollow of Frenchie's neck. ] 

I got you. [ Low, slow, deep enough that the noise comes out of his throat less than it comes out of his chest. ] I got you, baby, come on.

[cemarche]

[ there have been so many times Serge has whispered sweet nothings into someone's ear while in bed, coaxed them on, asked them to come--

but this is different. MM is different. how his arms are large enough to wrap around Serge until he has no choice, the rumble of that deep voice, those fucking words, like Serge is not standing at his back day to day, also covered in blood, but something fucking délicat, something worth something. worth anything. ]

Va te faire foutre, [ he pants out, his hips jerking shallowly, trapped as his body is. Serge closes his eyes and pulls on MM's neck as the quick, tight fuck of that callused hand and the murmur against his jaw bring him off. he grunts and shivers as his orgasm ruins any rhythm or further words. ]