[ He regains his breath quickly and simultaneously, his arousal grows steadfastly more acute until all he can really focus on is how incredibly hard he is, how much his balls ache. His throat feels like an extension of that, the idea of Claude's cock having carved its own pattern into his body only adding to the heat in his abdomen. He shifts, running one, stiff hand through his hair and settling the strands sloppily along his scalp while Claude disposes of the condom and holds out his arm for him. Come, he says, an echo from earlier in the evening and Jean Louis looks at him, considering.
He realises he could ask for mostly everything. Oddly, the thought actually makes him slightly anxious and he frowns, unable to decode the whys and whats of that particular problem right now but unwilling to disregard the feeling behind it. He could take advantage of Claude like this. He could ask for anything. He could fuck him, maybe, and carve him out in turn, but something about that thought feels wrong. He doesn't want to create distance or push Claude into a position that makes him less, he wants to be... careful with him. Whatever that means.
In a flash, he remembers something that doesn't really have a place in this situation - a German book of fairy tales, something he inherited from his grandmother, old and tattered. It's on a shelf in his apartment somewhere. He doesn't understand why he's even kept it, truthfully, so he's stopped looking at it when he passes by the shelf in question and usually, he doesn't think about it.
He has kept it, though. It has moved with him from house to house, from the institution to his very first, dingy flat and somehow, it's still here.
Fingers twitching against the sheets, he looks down, eyes narrowing briefly. I want you to give me a part of you, says Claude, his arms open in invitation and suddenly, he realises that he doesn't know how to be properly careful with him. Fear and convenience. Empathy.
Wordlessly, he shifts closer and takes all he can from Claude's invitation; he slips into his grip until they're pressed up against each other, front to front, his hard cock lodged between their bodies. He can feel Claude's, too, against his thigh, flaccid now but warm. Familiar. Reaching up, he puts his hand against the side of Claude's face, another mirror, another echo. When he speaks, his voice is raw: ]
Like this.
[ He shuts his eyes, leans in and kisses him. It's a slow kiss and his lips feel oversensitive and swollen but he doesn't hurry it up or try to turn it into something it isn't. Instead, he steals Claude's breath, his taste, the feel of his tongue against his own, pushing into him and retracing his steps.
no subject
He realises he could ask for mostly everything. Oddly, the thought actually makes him slightly anxious and he frowns, unable to decode the whys and whats of that particular problem right now but unwilling to disregard the feeling behind it. He could take advantage of Claude like this. He could ask for anything. He could fuck him, maybe, and carve him out in turn, but something about that thought feels wrong. He doesn't want to create distance or push Claude into a position that makes him less, he wants to be... careful with him. Whatever that means.
In a flash, he remembers something that doesn't really have a place in this situation - a German book of fairy tales, something he inherited from his grandmother, old and tattered. It's on a shelf in his apartment somewhere. He doesn't understand why he's even kept it, truthfully, so he's stopped looking at it when he passes by the shelf in question and usually, he doesn't think about it.
He has kept it, though. It has moved with him from house to house, from the institution to his very first, dingy flat and somehow, it's still here.
Fingers twitching against the sheets, he looks down, eyes narrowing briefly. I want you to give me a part of you, says Claude, his arms open in invitation and suddenly, he realises that he doesn't know how to be properly careful with him. Fear and convenience. Empathy.
Wordlessly, he shifts closer and takes all he can from Claude's invitation; he slips into his grip until they're pressed up against each other, front to front, his hard cock lodged between their bodies. He can feel Claude's, too, against his thigh, flaccid now but warm. Familiar. Reaching up, he puts his hand against the side of Claude's face, another mirror, another echo. When he speaks, his voice is raw: ]
Like this.
[ He shuts his eyes, leans in and kisses him. It's a slow kiss and his lips feel oversensitive and swollen but he doesn't hurry it up or try to turn it into something it isn't. Instead, he steals Claude's breath, his taste, the feel of his tongue against his own, pushing into him and retracing his steps.
That, at least, feels like solid ground. ]