[ The full extent of what Claude believes in regarding consent laws is for there to be affirmative, informed consent between two adult partners before they engage in sexual activity and shit, it sounds so stiff and formal, put that way, but needs must. Yeah, needs must. When Jean Louis leans closer, too, trails his fingers softly along Claude's jaw, so the sensitive skin prickles, making his breathing stutter, like there's an electrically charged bridge between them, Claude thinks he's shown his interest by putting the option into words, and he's already said yes, letting his body give itself over - none of which, of course, are things that by themselves show consent, but as an affirmation from him to Jean Louis, it does. It is. Some things must translate individually. That's what makes consent difficult. Tricky.
It's what makes sex so vulnerable and Jean Louis' lips against his own lips make him feel endlessly exposed, though he knows what he's displaying, he knows who he is, now. How it used to be doesn't have to translate to this. He decides that, he decides.
That's the part that's truly consent.
Eyes shooting up to Jean Louis' face, the strong features he bears, his forehead and cheeks, temples, jawline, nose (strong), lips (soft), he licks his lips, then. He reaches up with both hands, catching the other man's face between them, one palm against the whole right side, thumb stroking over cheekbone, the other landing near the smooth transition from neck to jut of jaw and he's all edges and expanses and soft, warm skin here. Claude just holds him like that for two seconds, then he leans in and kisses him again, tilting his head to fit, to make them slide against each other, glide and wet and slick and his breath tumbles out of his nose as he parts his lips, tongue following the trail of Jean Louis' prominent bottom lip.
It's not a hesitant kiss. Sure, he's still afraid. He still remembers, but what you remember's undeniably in the past. You can't remember forward in time. You can't remember right now, not yet.
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It's what makes sex so vulnerable and Jean Louis' lips against his own lips make him feel endlessly exposed, though he knows what he's displaying, he knows who he is, now. How it used to be doesn't have to translate to this. He decides that, he decides.
That's the part that's truly consent.
Eyes shooting up to Jean Louis' face, the strong features he bears, his forehead and cheeks, temples, jawline, nose (strong), lips (soft), he licks his lips, then. He reaches up with both hands, catching the other man's face between them, one palm against the whole right side, thumb stroking over cheekbone, the other landing near the smooth transition from neck to jut of jaw and he's all edges and expanses and soft, warm skin here. Claude just holds him like that for two seconds, then he leans in and kisses him again, tilting his head to fit, to make them slide against each other, glide and wet and slick and his breath tumbles out of his nose as he parts his lips, tongue following the trail of Jean Louis' prominent bottom lip.
It's not a hesitant kiss. Sure, he's still afraid. He still remembers, but what you remember's undeniably in the past. You can't remember forward in time. You can't remember right now, not yet.
It's gone.
And this means something. ]