[ Claude takes him in and returns the kiss, mouth open and pliant, patient. The need for more grows even stronger and he groans into the other man's mouth, shifting against him while Claude breaks the kiss briefly to slick up his hand. It's a very short break indeed, seconds at best, because Jean Louis dives right back in at the same time as Claude, meeting him midway and letting him go at his own pace. He just wants to be here, in him, he doesn't particularly care how fast they go or how hard. Breathing shakily through his nose, he stays like that as Claude's slick fingers close around his cock - then, he shudders, the sudden onslaught of stimulation going straight to his blood. He twists slightly in Claude's grip, thrusting upwards, meeting his strokes with his own pace. It's not fast or evenly paced; it's just him, searching for that hand, the friction of his palm, and combined with the warmth of his mouth it takes him less than a dozen thrusts before he comes, his orgasm surging through him like electricity.
He stiffens at it, breaking the kiss and pushing his forehead into Claude's shoulder instead, eyes screwing shut as he feels his body take over from him for the first time since they hung him up in that warehouse. He'd drifted then, like he used to drift when he was young. This time, he stays rooted within himself and the wave of pleasure makes him groan (it's too high-pitched, it's a whine, not a groan but he doesn't think about it, he just hides it away in the darkness between Claude's neck and his collarbone).
Though he probably should let the other man breathe, he folds his arm around his waist instead because a part of him can't bear the thought of separation, the idea that once this ends, it ends. He doesn't want to be left with the traces of it in his body and nothing else, he doesn't want the emptiness and shadows of his apartment. He can, of course, if he has to. He can deal. He's done so ever since Emilia left, ever since Vincent left.
It's fine but it isn't.
His orgasm settles gradually in his limbs, a slow, familiar type of heaviness. He can feel Claude's chest rising and falling against his chin and before he knows it, he's tempering his own breathing towards that pace, up and down, back and forth.
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He stiffens at it, breaking the kiss and pushing his forehead into Claude's shoulder instead, eyes screwing shut as he feels his body take over from him for the first time since they hung him up in that warehouse. He'd drifted then, like he used to drift when he was young. This time, he stays rooted within himself and the wave of pleasure makes him groan (it's too high-pitched, it's a whine, not a groan but he doesn't think about it, he just hides it away in the darkness between Claude's neck and his collarbone).
Though he probably should let the other man breathe, he folds his arm around his waist instead because a part of him can't bear the thought of separation, the idea that once this ends, it ends. He doesn't want to be left with the traces of it in his body and nothing else, he doesn't want the emptiness and shadows of his apartment. He can, of course, if he has to. He can deal. He's done so ever since Emilia left, ever since Vincent left.
It's fine but it isn't.
His orgasm settles gradually in his limbs, a slow, familiar type of heaviness. He can feel Claude's chest rising and falling against his chin and before he knows it, he's tempering his own breathing towards that pace, up and down, back and forth.
Back and forth. ]