[Claude runs his fingers through his hair, stroke after stroke, and the way it's going all over the place makes something in his chest tighten. Take me apart, he thinks but doesn't say, he wouldn't ever, you invite that kind of shit into your life, you might as well flop down onto your back and let them have a go at you. He thinks about the Netherlands, about Rotterdam and the smell of metal and ozone. The drugs, boxed and ready and his right-hand man (Ezio's, in truth) tasting it on the tip of his tongue. Buono, he'd said and waved his hand, joining Jean Louis moments later and waiting for his silent nod of approval. It was a good deal. It was even worth slashing a line down the middle of his country.
A part of him knows all of this.
But most of him knows Claude now, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath as he buries his nose against his temple and he wants that. He doesn't care about what he knows. He cares about what he wants. Groaning, he turns his head in turn and catches Claude's lips along with that small yes, his willingness. He presses into his mouth, filling him up, their tongues gliding together wetly and the feel of it isn't nearly enough but it's good, regardless, which is one of the greatest contrasts between Claude's reality and his own. In his world, nothing's good enough. Nothing's enough.
In Claude's, even a small percentage of something greater feels immense.
He runs his free hand up between Claude's legs, curving his palm over his crotch and feeling him out beneath his jeans. Yes, he said. Yes, presumably, to whatever the fuck this is, Jean Louis' mind speeding by like a coked-up chicken, but not necessarily to everything it implies. You can't presume with him. You mustn't.
Claude is a treasure.
He pulls out of the kiss, sinks onto his knees more fully and tilts his head upwards, catching the other man's gaze. ]
Let me suck you off.
[ Can I. He doesn't quite manage to actually ask. It's not that kind of night. ]
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A part of him knows all of this.
But most of him knows Claude now, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath as he buries his nose against his temple and he wants that. He doesn't care about what he knows. He cares about what he wants. Groaning, he turns his head in turn and catches Claude's lips along with that small yes, his willingness. He presses into his mouth, filling him up, their tongues gliding together wetly and the feel of it isn't nearly enough but it's good, regardless, which is one of the greatest contrasts between Claude's reality and his own. In his world, nothing's good enough. Nothing's enough.
In Claude's, even a small percentage of something greater feels immense.
He runs his free hand up between Claude's legs, curving his palm over his crotch and feeling him out beneath his jeans. Yes, he said. Yes, presumably, to whatever the fuck this is, Jean Louis' mind speeding by like a coked-up chicken, but not necessarily to everything it implies. You can't presume with him. You mustn't.
Claude is a treasure.
He pulls out of the kiss, sinks onto his knees more fully and tilts his head upwards, catching the other man's gaze. ]
Let me suck you off.
[ Can I. He doesn't quite manage to actually ask. It's not that kind of night. ]