[ 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.
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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. ]
no subject
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. ]