[ The hand on his hip makes itself noticeable first, like -- not a warning, but as a portent, something that heralds something else. And the something else that follows after, Claude staying as still as he can with his cock half-buried in Jean Louis' mouth, is the other man hollowing his cheeks and sucking on his cock, creating the perfect kind of pressure, wet suction around the head, the shaft, everything vibrating maddeningly.
His breath hitches in his throat, catches somewhere where the air definitely doesn't get all the way to his brain, his mind feeling hazy, thick, throbbing. Like his cock is, currently, getting eaten. An inch up his length and Jean Louis repeats, Claude definitely moaning this time, writhing beneath the other man's hold, forcing himself not to thrust, not to insist. There's a time and a place. This isn't it.
They're going slow, it seems, and it's good, it's great; he writhes a little more, moaning again, helplessly, as Jean Louis makes a rhythm of it, not a pace, there isn't much in the way of slide, but everything else... yes, everything else is there and the rest will come.
That's what Claude believes, generally speaking, too.
Deciding he'd rather just give himself over, relax into what he's given, he eases down on his back completely, reaching up with his other hand and running his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, his hand on his shoulder coming up to caress the side of his neck, feeling the muscles bulge from how the other man's mouth is working. Very hot. He groans and glances down, looking at the spectacle of Jean Louis sucking him off, shoulders broad and his whole upper body bent in over Claude's lap. He can actually see his scar from here, the huge area of broken, torn skin, sewn together in some haphazard-looking way. A smaller scar, much less distinctive matching on his other shoulder. Claude looks at his muscles flexing beneath the skin, he looks at the placement and the rise of scar tissue over his shoulder blades from this angle, eyes half-closed and his breathing ringing in his head... and he gets a chilling feeling.
Suddenly, he remembers where he's heard about Jean Louis Girard before. The Luxembourgish politician, the home invasion robbery, it was a big thing a year ago. No one knew what to believe.
Looking at those scars, Claude understands why. What he also understands is that Jean Louis is showing him something extremely vulnerable, trusting him not to -- trusting him, period. Trusting him.
His hips buck a little, a little too hard probably up against Jean Louis' mouth, when Claude realizes that he trusts him right back. His hands keep soothingly stroking the other man's hair, his neck, the side of it where the pulse pounds away. He can't believe how turned on he is right now, when he gets a feeling that he should wonder, worry, maybe.
And yet, he's unafraid and he's here. Muttering under his breath, he forces himself completely still, letting Jean Louis hold him, letting himself be held. ]
Sorry, sorry, I -- [ His abdominal muscles work, tightening regularly as he fights his urge to push upwards. ] -- it's so good, don't stop, don't even think about it, don't --
[ When it comes down to it, you can insist any day, anytime, it all depends on what you're insisting on. ]
[ He can feel Claude looking down at him, there's something about having eyes on you that's impossible to ignore when you make your living by being seen, heard and opposed. Before that, there were other reasons to pay attention. Jean Louis doesn't look back at him, letting him have whatever contemplations he might have to himself until he chooses to share them, if he ever does. In all cases, it's very doubtful he'll ever tell Claude the truth - after all, it's physical evidence of ties to a very different reality, ties that are lucrative but ultimately... unacceptable. Not to him, obviously, but they walk different worlds in that respect, him and Claude. And in certain places, there will be barriers.
Claude's hips buck, his cock pushing up against the roof of Jean Louis' mouth and he can sense the impatience running through the other man's muscles, straining beneath his hand, straining to go. Yes. What matters now is what they know, now. He strokes Claude's hip, his fingers slipping down to the soft skin of his upper thigh.
Then, slowly, he looks up at him. Catches the fight in his gaze, his willingness to follow along even when all his instincts are telling him that he wants to fly, now. It'll be a shame, really, to keep anchoring him. Eyebrows lifting minimally, he folds his palm over Claude's lower abdomen, not holding him down as much as supporting him, takes a deep breath and relaxes his throat. He's good at it - has been, for several years.
Eyes falling shut once more, he frowns slightly in concentration, keeps a hold on the condom with his other hand and lowers himself over Claude's cock, angling the other man and shifting himself to accommodate the stretch that follows once the head starts pressing against the small opening to his throat. He lets it. Uses his weight to sink down, down, and the head feels enormous, like something that couldn't possibly fit within him. It's a lie, like many other perceived limitations in life - relaxed, still, and unafraid he feels it pop, slipping into his throat and stopping the flow of air to his lungs.
When he pulls back this time, it feels like there's a giant hole left there, something that needs filling out as fast as possible. So he lets Claude slip out about halfway before he takes him back down, just as far. He can feel tears pressing at the corners of his eyes which is fine. Let his body give.
[ No words are exchanged beyond Claude's senseless begging and somehow that helps the worry, the last remnants of anxiety to disperse, disappear. If he wasn't afraid of Rainier who made his reality truly fearsome at times, then he doesn't need to fear what's in the end just an unproven idea he has about Jean Louis, something that sure fits his view of liberals, fits his view - on the darkest of days - about politicians in general, but is never the whole, full truth. There are nuances to everything. Shades. Shadows. He knows.
He looks at Jean Louis, placing his hand soothingly over his abdomen and leaving him to move as he pleases, and knows. There's more to it as there should be, as there must. Would he honestly have it any differently? Would he want this moment any different?
Than what it is; Jean Louis angling himself over his crotch and lowering himself down over his cock, taking it in inch by inch until Claude can tell, he's going beyond the back of his mouth, beyond the roof, beyond the narrow opening to his throat. He whimpers loudly, shifting restlessly but trying not to move too much, not to push, not to force. He knows what it feels like taking the cock of someone who doesn't care and fuck, Claude wants to care, he wants to care so much...
How far can he really take him, though? There's a natural stop. There's a natural stop to everything.
Except, Claude isn't sure Jean Louis truly believes that and he certainly doesn't stop swallowing him down until his whole fucking length is lodged in his throat, everything narrow and tight and there's glide, there's heat. Claude is gasping now, incoherent sounds as his whole body's working with the flow. He could, like this. He could give himself over.
And Jean Louis proceeds to do it again, pushing Claude down into the narrowest part of him, where the walls are working around his shaft, around his head and Claude pants, hard, leaning up on one elbow again to see, to fucking watch, careful not to jostle anything. There's his crotch and there's Jean Louis' nose in it, buried. He whimpers, reaching down with his free hand to cradle the side of Jean Louis' face, rubbing a stray tear away from his eye with his thumb before - more selfishly - running his hand down to his throat, feeling for the bulge of himself, where he sits, where he is taking up space.
A loud moan and his hips actually try burying him deeper yet when his orgasm washes over him, warm and huge and numbing, all his muscles tensing, working, pushing, he's pushing, he wants, he wants, he wants.
Claude is quiet, words eluding him right now, but his body is loud. It is crying out. Against Jean Louis' throat, his fingers are spread out, feeling himself, pulsing. It's like a double feedback loop, like feeling it twice over, as if it's happening times two.
At the end, he more or less collapses onto his back. ]
[ Mm, and Claude lets him take him there. It becomes clear very fast that he isn't used to this treatment - when Jean Louis takes him down the whole way, he can feel the other man's muscles tense up and then, he's clearly fighting for control, not pushing down as he could, if he wanted to, but hanging on for dear life. He's such a decent man, Claude. He'll choose decency over selfishness even in this and Jean Louis immediately decides that if they ever do this again, he'll push him in the other direction. Help him take what he deserves.
For now, though, he'll happily accept the feel of the other man climaxing deep within him after only a few slides of back and forth, his cock pulsing in the condom, Claude's hand tracing his throat and feeling himself. He lets him, keeping himself still until he can feel his vision starting to blacken around the edges from lack of air - actually fainting with a cock lodged in your throat sounds inadvisable. Blinking tears from his eyes, he takes a firmer grip on the edge of the condom and pulls back, the head popping free from within his throat harshly and making him see stars for a split-second. Letting Claude's cock slip from his mouth, he leans down and rests his forehead against the inside of the other man's thigh, taking in one controlled breath after the other.
He's so hard that he feels he could come just by sitting here a little while longer, breathing Claude in. From this angle, he can smell his arousal, his cock and his skin, so clearly. He's got his other hand curved against Claude's stomach still, though he's released the condom, leaving the other man to dispose of it. The imprint of his cock feels like a brand inside his throat, deeply personal and permanent, the way these things are when people become more than just nameless strangers. He's had a lot of the latter in his life, not too many others.
[ There's a moment when everything's grey fog, his mind feeling pleasantly blank, no long speeches, no arguments, not a word. Just quiet, buzzing, his muscles slowly turning to jelly, more or less. He breathes in, slow, long and deep, staring up at Jean Louis' ceiling, the light from the aquarium dying it in notes of blue, lots of flickers, lot of shadows, moving things. He stays still. He lets it exist around him and exists within it, the way he just came so deep in Jean Louis' throat that the man is now fighting for air with his forehead against Claude's thigh, the puffs of it feeling soft and hot and fast.
Finally, Claude shakes himself out of it and glances down himself, where his spent cock is looking sad and slowly turning limp in the condom. Not good.
With a groan, he sits up and reaches down, easing the condom off, tying it up and uncaringly aiming it somewhere beyond the bed, throwing it without checking where it lands. Doesn't matter. It's done its job. Jean Louis has, too. He's been good. He's been amazing. ]
That was how deep you wanted to take me? [ A small pause, then softly - ] Deeper than anyone else has.
[ Slowly, he gets onto his knees, careful to extract himself from beneath Jean Louis gently and without colliding with anything too hard. He looks him over, the way he's sitting there, hard as rock and more patient than most men Claude has fucked. It's like that, apparently. Jean Louis Girard takes many firsts tonight. Claude wants to give them to him as well, he wants to pour his heart out. He wants to give him back, but sometimes giving is done by taking, right? Sometimes it's a little bit twisted like that.
Someone taught him, once. He frowns. Picks up the other, unopened condom and holds it between both hands, momentarily uncertain of himself. He wants to take, but he doesn't know if it's right, to take. ]
Come. [ If nothing else, he remembers himself. He remembers the way Jean Louis said 'come' in the living room and mirrors it. Meanwhile, he holds out one arm, waving his hand a bit, come. ] I want you to give me a part of you, too.
[ Easing onto his side, he waits for Jean Louis to decide whether that part is going to be his cock or not, in his mouth or not, tonight or some other time. Again. ]
[ 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.
[ Claude isn't completely sure what he'd expected. Not what he gets. He knows what he's offering, he knows the scope of it well enough, Jean Louis could make him do anything, could do anything to him and he'd give, he'd take. But what Jean Louis does is to slip into his arms, like a whisper of bedsheets against your skin, and then he's suddenly closer than close, their chests pressed together, their stomachs, their crotches. He can feel the heavy, warm outline of the other man's hard cock, desperately, throbbing hard.
Still, what Jean Louis asks for is his mouth and not on his dick, but on himself, against his lips and they're parting, they're kissing suddenly, tongues and spit and wetness and Claude feels him, closer than close. He feels him, wanting closer than close. And he knows, without the shadow of a doubt, they need to stay connected like this, they can't break apart until it's really over. Until it's in order to say goodbye.
So, dropping the condom with his other hand, off to the side, he reaches up and runs his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, from his temple and down to the neckline, softens his fingertips where they stroke over his scalp, caressing him. Gently. He makes a soft groaning sound into his mouth, kissing him back in kind, tongue and hot breath, but it's not a violent kiss, it's passionate but not like that. It's connect. It's want - but to touch, to be in touch. He likes it. It feels considerate. Caring.
Humming into the kiss once, he draws back - both for breath and to quickly withdraw his hand from Jean Louis' hair to lick it over, tasting hair product and sweat and the heavy, dark taste of the other man. He likes it, he likes how many facets he's allowed to glimpse. His now very wet hand, he slips down between their bodies, keeping the pace slow, thoughtful, patient. He runs spit-slick fingers up the underside of Jean Louis' cock slowly, one time, before closing them around the shaft, angling his wrist right. ]
Sure, I'm following.
[ It's muttered, low and hoarsely, against Jean Louis' mouth, against his lips before Claude kisses him again, careful with the pressure he's applying - to his noticeably swollen lips, to his cock, both. It's Claude taking the lead on this from the backseat, keeping Jean Louis in his sights. The kiss is soft and warm and he's smiling throughout it, beginning to stroke up along Jean Louis' length, weighing the girth of him against the tip of his fingers, curled around him and following the whole shape of his cock, stroking his palm carefully over the head of his cock before repeating the motion, down, up.
It's a full embrace. It's accommodating everything the other man's got, all that he is. ]
[ 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.
[ It doesn't take long, because Jean Louis has waited, the way you have to wait for some things in life, and sometimes for a painfully, unfairly long time. He thinks about what the other man said about no one else and he feels strangely priviliged to be given this experience, this moment in time with him. Like he's someone, in comparison. Being someone is a nice feeling, it's only human to want not to be reduced.
And when he comes, Jean Louis whimpers against him, his body shaking, muscles working, twitching, reacting to him beneath his skin and Claude holds him, cradles the back of his head where he's pressing his forehead against his shoulder, hiding in the darkness between Claude's neck and jaw. There's room, he thinks. Jean Louis can sit there, like Claude sat in his mouth, in his throat. It's an equal transaction.
Not that the world needs more transactions. It needs more empathy. Compassion.
Stroking him until he's spent, Claude withdraws his hand slowly, softly, not even bothering to wipe off his cum although he should, honestly. This isn't exactly the safest sex practice he's ever done, but it's lovely. Jean Louis is lovely and he doesn't want to go home, it's at least two in the morning and he'll only be crashing in a hotel he doesn't even like, alone. He'll get second thoughts. He might even have regrets, though he shouldn't, nothing to regret here. All because, if he leaves now, Rainier will follow him, and Claude is sick of being followed.
This is preferable. This, breathing in and out, feeling Jean Louis fall into the same rhythm. Like mirrors. Like reflections. Same.
Claude holds him, turning his head in against the side of his face and murmurs, ]
I'll stay.
[ Let's not worry about it, it means, either of us. The room smells of their essences, how they've merged and Claude can't think of a stronger descriptor than that. How they're a little bit one right now.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His breath hitches in his throat, catches somewhere where the air definitely doesn't get all the way to his brain, his mind feeling hazy, thick, throbbing. Like his cock is, currently, getting eaten. An inch up his length and Jean Louis repeats, Claude definitely moaning this time, writhing beneath the other man's hold, forcing himself not to thrust, not to insist. There's a time and a place. This isn't it.
They're going slow, it seems, and it's good, it's great; he writhes a little more, moaning again, helplessly, as Jean Louis makes a rhythm of it, not a pace, there isn't much in the way of slide, but everything else... yes, everything else is there and the rest will come.
That's what Claude believes, generally speaking, too.
Deciding he'd rather just give himself over, relax into what he's given, he eases down on his back completely, reaching up with his other hand and running his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, his hand on his shoulder coming up to caress the side of his neck, feeling the muscles bulge from how the other man's mouth is working. Very hot. He groans and glances down, looking at the spectacle of Jean Louis sucking him off, shoulders broad and his whole upper body bent in over Claude's lap. He can actually see his scar from here, the huge area of broken, torn skin, sewn together in some haphazard-looking way. A smaller scar, much less distinctive matching on his other shoulder. Claude looks at his muscles flexing beneath the skin, he looks at the placement and the rise of scar tissue over his shoulder blades from this angle, eyes half-closed and his breathing ringing in his head... and he gets a chilling feeling.
Suddenly, he remembers where he's heard about Jean Louis Girard before. The Luxembourgish politician, the home invasion robbery, it was a big thing a year ago. No one knew what to believe.
Looking at those scars, Claude understands why. What he also understands is that Jean Louis is showing him something extremely vulnerable, trusting him not to -- trusting him, period. Trusting him.
His hips buck a little, a little too hard probably up against Jean Louis' mouth, when Claude realizes that he trusts him right back. His hands keep soothingly stroking the other man's hair, his neck, the side of it where the pulse pounds away. He can't believe how turned on he is right now, when he gets a feeling that he should wonder, worry, maybe.
And yet, he's unafraid and he's here. Muttering under his breath, he forces himself completely still, letting Jean Louis hold him, letting himself be held. ]
Sorry, sorry, I -- [ His abdominal muscles work, tightening regularly as he fights his urge to push upwards. ] -- it's so good, don't stop, don't even think about it, don't --
[ When it comes down to it, you can insist any day, anytime, it all depends on what you're insisting on. ]
no subject
Claude's hips buck, his cock pushing up against the roof of Jean Louis' mouth and he can sense the impatience running through the other man's muscles, straining beneath his hand, straining to go. Yes. What matters now is what they know, now. He strokes Claude's hip, his fingers slipping down to the soft skin of his upper thigh.
Then, slowly, he looks up at him. Catches the fight in his gaze, his willingness to follow along even when all his instincts are telling him that he wants to fly, now. It'll be a shame, really, to keep anchoring him. Eyebrows lifting minimally, he folds his palm over Claude's lower abdomen, not holding him down as much as supporting him, takes a deep breath and relaxes his throat. He's good at it - has been, for several years.
Eyes falling shut once more, he frowns slightly in concentration, keeps a hold on the condom with his other hand and lowers himself over Claude's cock, angling the other man and shifting himself to accommodate the stretch that follows once the head starts pressing against the small opening to his throat. He lets it. Uses his weight to sink down, down, and the head feels enormous, like something that couldn't possibly fit within him. It's a lie, like many other perceived limitations in life - relaxed, still, and unafraid he feels it pop, slipping into his throat and stopping the flow of air to his lungs.
When he pulls back this time, it feels like there's a giant hole left there, something that needs filling out as fast as possible. So he lets Claude slip out about halfway before he takes him back down, just as far. He can feel tears pressing at the corners of his eyes which is fine. Let his body give.
So Claude can have what he's offered. ]
no subject
He looks at Jean Louis, placing his hand soothingly over his abdomen and leaving him to move as he pleases, and knows. There's more to it as there should be, as there must. Would he honestly have it any differently? Would he want this moment any different?
Than what it is; Jean Louis angling himself over his crotch and lowering himself down over his cock, taking it in inch by inch until Claude can tell, he's going beyond the back of his mouth, beyond the roof, beyond the narrow opening to his throat. He whimpers loudly, shifting restlessly but trying not to move too much, not to push, not to force. He knows what it feels like taking the cock of someone who doesn't care and fuck, Claude wants to care, he wants to care so much...
How far can he really take him, though? There's a natural stop. There's a natural stop to everything.
Except, Claude isn't sure Jean Louis truly believes that and he certainly doesn't stop swallowing him down until his whole fucking length is lodged in his throat, everything narrow and tight and there's glide, there's heat. Claude is gasping now, incoherent sounds as his whole body's working with the flow. He could, like this. He could give himself over.
And Jean Louis proceeds to do it again, pushing Claude down into the narrowest part of him, where the walls are working around his shaft, around his head and Claude pants, hard, leaning up on one elbow again to see, to fucking watch, careful not to jostle anything. There's his crotch and there's Jean Louis' nose in it, buried. He whimpers, reaching down with his free hand to cradle the side of Jean Louis' face, rubbing a stray tear away from his eye with his thumb before - more selfishly - running his hand down to his throat, feeling for the bulge of himself, where he sits, where he is taking up space.
A loud moan and his hips actually try burying him deeper yet when his orgasm washes over him, warm and huge and numbing, all his muscles tensing, working, pushing, he's pushing, he wants, he wants, he wants.
Claude is quiet, words eluding him right now, but his body is loud. It is crying out. Against Jean Louis' throat, his fingers are spread out, feeling himself, pulsing. It's like a double feedback loop, like feeling it twice over, as if it's happening times two.
At the end, he more or less collapses onto his back. ]
no subject
For now, though, he'll happily accept the feel of the other man climaxing deep within him after only a few slides of back and forth, his cock pulsing in the condom, Claude's hand tracing his throat and feeling himself. He lets him, keeping himself still until he can feel his vision starting to blacken around the edges from lack of air - actually fainting with a cock lodged in your throat sounds inadvisable. Blinking tears from his eyes, he takes a firmer grip on the edge of the condom and pulls back, the head popping free from within his throat harshly and making him see stars for a split-second. Letting Claude's cock slip from his mouth, he leans down and rests his forehead against the inside of the other man's thigh, taking in one controlled breath after the other.
He's so hard that he feels he could come just by sitting here a little while longer, breathing Claude in. From this angle, he can smell his arousal, his cock and his skin, so clearly. He's got his other hand curved against Claude's stomach still, though he's released the condom, leaving the other man to dispose of it. The imprint of his cock feels like a brand inside his throat, deeply personal and permanent, the way these things are when people become more than just nameless strangers. He's had a lot of the latter in his life, not too many others.
Claude Bérubé.
Yes, the name will linger. ]
no subject
Finally, Claude shakes himself out of it and glances down himself, where his spent cock is looking sad and slowly turning limp in the condom. Not good.
With a groan, he sits up and reaches down, easing the condom off, tying it up and uncaringly aiming it somewhere beyond the bed, throwing it without checking where it lands. Doesn't matter. It's done its job. Jean Louis has, too. He's been good. He's been amazing. ]
That was how deep you wanted to take me? [ A small pause, then softly - ] Deeper than anyone else has.
[ Slowly, he gets onto his knees, careful to extract himself from beneath Jean Louis gently and without colliding with anything too hard. He looks him over, the way he's sitting there, hard as rock and more patient than most men Claude has fucked. It's like that, apparently. Jean Louis Girard takes many firsts tonight. Claude wants to give them to him as well, he wants to pour his heart out. He wants to give him back, but sometimes giving is done by taking, right? Sometimes it's a little bit twisted like that.
Someone taught him, once. He frowns. Picks up the other, unopened condom and holds it between both hands, momentarily uncertain of himself. He wants to take, but he doesn't know if it's right, to take. ]
Come. [ If nothing else, he remembers himself. He remembers the way Jean Louis said 'come' in the living room and mirrors it. Meanwhile, he holds out one arm, waving his hand a bit, come. ] I want you to give me a part of you, too.
[ Easing onto his side, he waits for Jean Louis to decide whether that part is going to be his cock or not, in his mouth or not, tonight or some other time. Again. ]
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. ]
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Still, what Jean Louis asks for is his mouth and not on his dick, but on himself, against his lips and they're parting, they're kissing suddenly, tongues and spit and wetness and Claude feels him, closer than close. He feels him, wanting closer than close. And he knows, without the shadow of a doubt, they need to stay connected like this, they can't break apart until it's really over. Until it's in order to say goodbye.
So, dropping the condom with his other hand, off to the side, he reaches up and runs his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, from his temple and down to the neckline, softens his fingertips where they stroke over his scalp, caressing him. Gently. He makes a soft groaning sound into his mouth, kissing him back in kind, tongue and hot breath, but it's not a violent kiss, it's passionate but not like that. It's connect. It's want - but to touch, to be in touch. He likes it. It feels considerate. Caring.
Humming into the kiss once, he draws back - both for breath and to quickly withdraw his hand from Jean Louis' hair to lick it over, tasting hair product and sweat and the heavy, dark taste of the other man. He likes it, he likes how many facets he's allowed to glimpse. His now very wet hand, he slips down between their bodies, keeping the pace slow, thoughtful, patient. He runs spit-slick fingers up the underside of Jean Louis' cock slowly, one time, before closing them around the shaft, angling his wrist right. ]
Sure, I'm following.
[ It's muttered, low and hoarsely, against Jean Louis' mouth, against his lips before Claude kisses him again, careful with the pressure he's applying - to his noticeably swollen lips, to his cock, both. It's Claude taking the lead on this from the backseat, keeping Jean Louis in his sights. The kiss is soft and warm and he's smiling throughout it, beginning to stroke up along Jean Louis' length, weighing the girth of him against the tip of his fingers, curled around him and following the whole shape of his cock, stroking his palm carefully over the head of his cock before repeating the motion, down, up.
It's a full embrace. It's accommodating everything the other man's got, all that he is. ]
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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. ]
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And when he comes, Jean Louis whimpers against him, his body shaking, muscles working, twitching, reacting to him beneath his skin and Claude holds him, cradles the back of his head where he's pressing his forehead against his shoulder, hiding in the darkness between Claude's neck and jaw. There's room, he thinks. Jean Louis can sit there, like Claude sat in his mouth, in his throat. It's an equal transaction.
Not that the world needs more transactions. It needs more empathy. Compassion.
Stroking him until he's spent, Claude withdraws his hand slowly, softly, not even bothering to wipe off his cum although he should, honestly. This isn't exactly the safest sex practice he's ever done, but it's lovely. Jean Louis is lovely and he doesn't want to go home, it's at least two in the morning and he'll only be crashing in a hotel he doesn't even like, alone. He'll get second thoughts. He might even have regrets, though he shouldn't, nothing to regret here. All because, if he leaves now, Rainier will follow him, and Claude is sick of being followed.
This is preferable. This, breathing in and out, feeling Jean Louis fall into the same rhythm. Like mirrors. Like reflections. Same.
Claude holds him, turning his head in against the side of his face and murmurs, ]
I'll stay.
[ Let's not worry about it, it means, either of us. The room smells of their essences, how they've merged and Claude can't think of a stronger descriptor than that. How they're a little bit one right now.
And how that's very much okay with him. ]