[ Claude turns towards him and takes the box, his eyes shining in the sparse light from the bedside table lamp and Jean Louis watches him as he opens it, likes it, and feels just a little lighter everywhere all throughout. It's nice when you succeed at what you want to do. When you run a risk and it's worth it, the value comes back doubled or more. Claude's expression along with his words, his slight breathlessness - it's perfect. He smiles slightly before reaching for the box, putting it on the bedside table. ]
It was luck.
[ He looks at the other man, on his stomach now, the duvet pulled up to the small of his back, his back strong-looking, the kind that says healthy and young. He knows what his own says - it's why the scarring's getting covered in artwork as soon as it's healed up enough not to worsen by it. Claude needs no such theatre to be whole. It's just the way he is.
Getting into bed next to him and shifting onto his side, facing him, Jean Louis gives into the impulse right beneath his skin and reaches for him, running his hand down the back of his neck, along the width of his shoulders. He moves slowly, without any kind of hurry. It's no longer late, after all. It's early. They have hours to go before sunrise. He doesn't know whether Claude wants to simply sleep - it's his mother's house, after all, who can say - but everything, even something that ends with nothing, has a start. ]
Luck, and a very insistent street vendor. [ His voice is low, to fit the small space around them, the bubble that's once again closing in, keeping their surroundings out. ] It's a family heirloom, I'm told - passed along for decades. Eventually, however, the line came to an end and its previous owner no longer had anyone to give it to - according to him, no one alive or deserving.
[ He runs his hand over Claude's back, fingers following the curve of his spine downwards. ]
They value change, he said, amongst themselves. It seemed fitting.
[ It doesn't just come with age, the present, it comes with a story - the kind you can get told when shopping at the St-Ouen markets, because it's real people who're passing along real, living history for money. If you're inclined to listen - and apparently Jean Louis got stopped and he got talked to, but most importantly, he listened and Claude wants to eat him now, he doesn't care about his sister next door, he's listened to her suck off her boyfriends a zillion times. This is fair trade.
Arching into the touch of Jean Louis' fingers, he listens, too, listen to him say, they value change, it seemed fitting. Because he knows, that's the foundation they met on, that Claude is working to change the very world order than Jean Louis represents and is ruling by. They shouldn't be able to co-exist, let alone want to engage in anything more intimate, but here they are and Claude has never met anyone who was as good at understanding him, making room for him in this world than Jean Louis is.
But there are things Jean Louis can't understand about him, things he doesn't even know, like - why Claude hasn't initiated anal yet, why he never invites more when Jean Louis makes it clear as day that he favours his ass. And Claude wonders, lying there on his front, chin resting on one bent arm, whether it's the real Claude Jean Louis is buying presents for, as long as it's unsaid, secret. There will always be a part of him obscured, if he doesn't open up about that. That thing. That terrible, destructive thing that doesn't fit with the rest of him (or maybe it does, right, maybe it fits better than anything).
Swallowing as the other man's fingers follow the curve of his spine down to where the duvet covers the curve of his ass, the rise of his ass cheeks, he eventually, slowly, oh so slowly, turns onto his side, breaking the touch. However, rather than letting the other man withdraw as he imagines he would, because Jean Louis is quick to read the room, a room, any room, he grabs his wrist and keeps his hand close for a moment, before placing it against his hip, jutting out from underneath the orange-red duvet. ]
Jean Louis, there's something I need you to know, before we -- [ -- move on to the ass stuff, he wants to say, not make too big a deal out of it, and because he does want to, he does want to share that with Jean Louis, too, but he can't even say the words. All he hears at the back of his head is Rainier's voice, one heavy arm around his shoulders as they leave the classroom together, lowered, discreet, I don't think you've deserved to come today when I fuck you later. Clearing his throat, he quickly gets himself under control, shaking his head softly. ] -- There's a reason that bill was so important to me. I guess, like all the strongest incentives in the world, it was very personal.
[ Pause. He wants to just tell him. Make it simple, but it isn't, that's the fucking problem, isn't it? It's not that he wants Jean Louis to guess, but his mind is blank insofar as how you let someone in. He's never done it before. And it was one thing Rainier definitely didn't teach him either. ]
[ The mood... shifts. It doesn't change, not like that - for instance, it doesn't slip into a more sexually heated mode, something he might've expected. Instead, they seem to drift closer somehow, like the air between them grows tighter, even as Claude shifts out of his grip partially, holding his hand close before pressing it to his hip. He notices, of course, as he has every time they've had sex - that Claude seems reluctant around his arse, that he indulges Jean Louis' appreciation for it without encouraging anything beyond that and he's drawn his own conclusions, mostly centering around the fact that people are different, have different tastes and he doesn't need anal sex in his life to be content, not at all.
He thinks about the light in Claude's eyes, the warmth, and his hand curls tighter against his hip.
Then, Claude looks up at him, the two of them front to front now, and tells him that there's something he needs to know, his words faltering as he swallows, clears his throat, all of those communicational tics that you learn not to exhibit in their line of work. He doesn't, usually. Claude is a very, very good orator. But now, he needs to tell Jean Louis something and that something sticks in his throat in a way that cripples him, visibly. Consent, he thinks as Claude pauses, that bill is about consent and a part of him tightens from anger before he even knows where they're headed. ]
Personal.
[ He sees a few options, none of them acceptable. But this is Claude's story and Jean Louis has never had a hard time listening to others. Under different circumstances, it's a great way to gain information without having to trade anything back - that said (and as a direct consequence), normally he's not particularly emotionally invested in what's being shared.
Right now, he has to very consciously force himself to allow Claude the space to himself, his voice perhaps a little bit too quiet, a little bit too still as he just adds: ]
[ Jean Louis asks, how so, and it's quiet, it's still, and Claude can sense the anger underneath the stillness, finding some kind of weird comfort in the fact that the other man has guessed and the way he reacts in response. Like a part of Claude was relieved when his mom freaked after finding out about Rainier, although he threw tantrums and screamed and cried, it was nice seeing someone who clearly showed him it was wrong, that it wasn't right and didn't have to feel that way. This is a bit like that, but even more comforting. Closer. Without the blame his mom still at times places with him.
It's the fact that Jean Louis doesn't assume anything, but lets him talk that urges him on, making Claude inch a bit closer to him, carefully, hesitantly, needing the proximity but unsure whether -- to this day, it still makes him feel wrong. Rainier does. Existing somewhere out there, that man still has such a great impact over him. He hates it. He detests it.
Claude's voice is quiet as he forces himself into a neutral start, words deliberately pronounced, like he's doing a speech somewhere important and honestly, he can't imagine a more important forum than this. Between the two of them. No secrets. Open hands. ]
I know what it's like when consent gets blurry. When the power dynamics in a relationship get skewed due to difference in position.
[ A hard intake of breath and he blinks a few times, angling his face upwards, to look up at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head back towards Jean Louis. They're lying in perfect parallel. His body. Claude's. He wants them to cross rather than this -- not touching, never touching. He wants them to touch, he wants Jean Louis to be more than his hand and Claude to be more than his hip.
He wants them to run together. ]
When I was seventeen, in my second year of lycée, I started a sexual relationship to my French teacher. He was 25 years older than me, early fourties, and we'd been flirting for most of first year. He was the first man I slept with. [ He falters, wetting his lips and being unable, to this day, to put into words why that relationship was so necessary to him, why it ended up being Rainier and not some sweet romance with one of his friends, what made that extra sense of risk necessary. So, Claude decides to just say it like he remembers it, but arranged the way therapy at least has taught him to do. The right order, but not necessarily the order that makes the most sense to his nervous system, just because his head understand. ] In the beginning, it felt like - just any relationship, I guess, though honestly, this was my first one, so how was I to know? Down the line, though, Rainier began becoming possessive and manipulative. I couldn't tell at the time, but looking back, it's... Yeah. Obvious. [ A shaking intake of breath. Claude meets Jean Louis' eyes directly, no hesitation, no holding back. This is the crux of it. The heart. The violently beating heart. ] He used sex against me a lot. Edging in bed, not respecting my no's, hard anal when he was dissatisfied with me. That kind of thing. I just thought -- I just thought that was how it was. Part of being an adult.
[ A few more inches, then he's almost but not quite pushing against Jean Louis' front, they're directly face to face, looking at each other, into each other. Claude frowns and doesn't know how to wrap it up, where to end it. When it's too much, TMI or whatever. But he wants to tie it up with today, with the here and now, so he adds after a moment of silence: ]
The worst thing was how I continued to long for his affection and approval, even after my mom put an end to it. I spent years, afterwards, on not being able to connect to others, especially men my own age. I just felt really removed. You're the first... I...
[ I've wanted, in general. Or, I've wanted to fuck me, specifically. He can't decide, so he lets it hang unspecificed in the air between them. ]
[ He listens and Claude talks. Though logically, his story isn't particularly long, listening without interrupting, without letting his emotions overrun the gradually shrinking physical space between them is like walking on foot with a million miles to your next destination. His hands clench and un-clench at intervals, grabbing the hem of Claude's briefs with his fingertips and pinching the fabric to avoid pinching him. As he listens, he realises two things at once; obviously, Claude's French teacher needs to die - he needed to die many years ago, before he'd ever got the chance to make Claude feel this way about himself. But more than that, he suddenly, abruptly, understands. The puzzle finishes itself, the questions he's had regarding Claude's reluctance to self-indulge, to trust his own wants and needs answered.
Though the other man doesn't say it, underneath many of his sentences, spoken with a shaky breath and words that clearly hurt him from where they start to where they finish, he hears one, simple, perceived truth: I am the kind of person who is wrong.
Eyes slowly narrowing to slits as Claude trails off, the silence between them stretching on for seconds, one after the other, he finally just flattens his hand against the small of his back, nudging him inwards the rest of way, until they're pressed up against each other on the bed, their legs entangled and Claude's chin poking his shoulder. He can feel the other man's breath, the tension in his body. He thinks about Rainier and how he'd like to end him. It's not the physical, living body that's the worst, though - that part is easy. It's the one stuck inside Claude's head, in his body, like that nasty old pervert somehow managed to clone himself by his pitiful actions - to breed, to infect.
Yes, such a thing is infinitely harder to kill. ]
Indeed, you must do what you can to eradicate him.
[ He says it without much inflection in his voice, without harshness or drama. It's a fact. He treats it as such. ]
And what he's managed to eradicate, you re-built in a way that suits you. Only you, no one else. [ He runs his other hand through Claude's curls slowly, fingertips gliding over his scalp, careful not to pull. ] No one else.
[ Jean Louis pulls him in close by the small of his back, Claude letting himself be led just as much as he pushes forward himself, pushing closer, until they're front to front, chest to chest and their legs entangled, the fabric of Jean Louis' pyjamas bottoms soft, silken against his naked shins. He presses his face in against the other man's shoulder, the good one, forehead against the jut of it, where it becomes upper arm, his nose buried in against soft skin, the smell of him overwhelmingly intense, heavy and musky and comforting and safe. He smells like safety.
And then, he sounds like safety, too, when he in that language that is so typical of him, tells Claude to eradicate Rainier, tells him to do away with him in whatever way he can - and the parts that Rainier took, he must rebuild to suit him. No one else, Jean Louis mutters, touching Claude's hair gently, touching it softly and with tenderness. No one else, not even Jean Louis. It has to be Claude's very own.
Own it, he can almost hear him say. Like liberals own everything and the world, too, but maybe in this - and only in this - there's a point to take away from it. Maybe there is, right?
Lying like that, Jean Louis' hairy chest pressing against him, warm and soft and tender like the rest, he was never anything but consistent, Claude feels it come over him, the sorrow he often feels, not at losing Rainier, but at what Rainier took with him and which he won't get back. Sure, like Jean Louis said, he can rebuilt, but if you wanted what was, the history of it, new cufflinks in a modern design just aren't the same. What can he say, he wants to be unspoiled.
He wants to be unspoiled.
A deep, shaking breath and he reaches up with both hands, pressing them against the place where midriff becomes chest, spreading out his fingers and touching as much of the other man as he can manage, palms and fingertips and anything that can take him in. He wants to merge with him, he wants to carry him inside. It's not a spontanous thing, either, it's not just in light of this, it's in light of all of it. Everything Jean Louis is to him.
He wants to feel him, closer than this, even, until there are only their own barriers left and like Jean Louis says, those are for them to define. Give value. Take value from.
So, Claude turns his head to the side, pushing his at this point tear-streaked face in against the side of Jean Louis' neck, nodding a few times to show, he's listening, he gets it, he even agrees, imagine that. He smells like sweat and old Armani Code there, where there's pulse point and bobbing Adam's apple. Claude nuzzles in, nose first, then lips. Hungry, parted lips. ]
[ Claude pushes in against him, audibly breathing him in and pressing his hands to his chest, fingers spread out, taking up space. There's a desperation to it, to his movements, that makes perfect sense and consequently, Jean Louis doesn't move, simply supports him - hand in his hair, hand against his back. From this exact point in time, he'll need the other man to take the next step for them; he could do it, certainly, Jean Louis, but as has been the case with Claude since meeting him for the first time, he... worries about setting the wrong pace or picking the wrong track with him. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing you can re-trace or delete.
Just as Claude carries Rainier's mistakes with him even now, even here, he would carry Jean Louis' as well. If he were to stoop.
Like he told Camille, he doesn't gamble with his treasures.
After a moment, Claude pushes his face against the side of his neck and he's clearly been crying if he isn't still, though he isn't doing so audibly. The thought makes his chest tighten, though he never cries himself; there's something about seeing it in others, the helplessness associated with tears that he doesn't like. Claude's breathing sounds ragged, though when he leans in and parts his lips over Jean Louis' throat, it feels equal parts hot and wet. Jean Louis looks at him, frowning slightly. I'm starting now, he says and there's pain in his voice, still, along with certainty, something that feels strong and unyielding, traits that are also Claude's to a fault.
He looks at Claude for another moment through the shadows. Then, carefully, he rolls Claude onto his back on the bed, moving with him, until they're once again front to front. He keeps his balance on his knees to avoid putting all his weight on the other man and leans in, kissing his way up the side of his neck slowly. ]
And how would you like to start?
[ He nibbles at Claude's ear, his curls tickling his nose. Jean Louis breathes him in, in turn. ]
[ Rolling him over onto his back, managing to somehow do it in a way that doesn't feel overpowering, but careful, caring, Jean Louis ends up on top of him, weight on his knees, keeping everything he brings off Claude's body, like Claude's burdens are his own to bear. No additions. No expectation of carrying what's Jean Louis' own. Claude likes that, he likes the implications of it - they're their own people, at the same time that they're each others'. Arms slipping up around Jean Louis' shoulders, grabbing him harder than he would normally, desperately, he pulls him in when the other man starts kissing his way up the side of his neck, jawline, ear. His nose is in Claude's curls and Claude turns his face to the side, opening up to him in the most physical way he can, without actively letting him into his body, expanding, widening, that kinda thing.
And how would you like to start, Jean Louis wants to know, assuming nothing and that means, it's Claude's call completely. Which means, he should make safe choices, he should start slow, let's frot, let's sixty-nine, maybe fingers, if he really insists on taking back his ass, reclaiming that part of himself, but maybe that's the point. Claude has never been the type to go slow and not take risks, would he be a politician at all, if he didn't - the thing with Rainier was plenty proof, but not everyone he sleeps with is Rainier and not every risk is not calculated, is not considered and not every risk won't yield a success, once taken, once run.
Because what happened with Rainier didn't happen because of any risk Claude ran. It happened because of the wrong decisions Rainier made, not the other way around.
He breathes out slowly, easily, slightly shakily, feeling Jean Louis close, feeling the outline of his nose, feeling the soft moistness of his lips. His body knows these things, his mind knows them, his heart does. He doesn't have to be afraid of making wrong calls here, because whatever call he makes, he makes them for himself and they're his own. In a way that suits you, no one else, Jean Louis said.
Well, this suits him. His cock is already starting to fill, hardening slightly between his legs. He shifts, turns his face back in against the side of the other man's face, lips close to his ear, not nibbling, but saying: ]
I want you to fuck me.
[ It's slow, deliberate, every word drawn out for a moment. Oratory techniques or whatever. Claude swallows and licks his lips, adding, because while he takes risks, he also knows how far to go, what safety measures to insist on. Problematizing doing anal for the first time in seven years in his mother's house of all places is not something to insist on. Prep, however, is. ]
There's lube and condoms in my washbag. You're free to go rummage or I can do it.
[ He can feel Claude falling back into place beneath him, the tension in his body seemingly changing, becoming... softer, pliant, perhaps. It's contagious. The tension that's hung in his muscles and mind the whole day and evening as a lead-up and a follow-up both to his Italian Christmas conversation is slipping slowly but surely into the background. He thinks about Claude opening the small box - like you'd known me for years, he'd said. A resounding success, surely, if that's what he wanted to achieve by it and he's slowly coming to realise that around Claude, he's never completely sure. Does he want approval? Affection? Compliance? All answers seem too simple, somehow.
As he gets to his feet to rummage, however, he thinks that maybe all of this is it. The gift. Claude's expression. The tear tracks still faintly visible on his cheeks. The feel of him, pressed against his front, holding on because for some reason, the man's seen a place of safety within him when in reality, there's nothing there at all.
But Jean Louis wants the illusion of it.
He finds lube and condoms after a few seconds, weighing them in his hand briefly. Claude wants to be fucked and certainly, he's happy to oblige - his cock, in particular, is getting a bit ahead of itself, more than half-way hard and straining against the silk of his bottoms. But another part of him, one that never fails to think no matter how high his arousal goes, keeps remembering the wetness in Claude's voice, the pain. It doesn't frighten him, of course, pain never has. But it makes him alert.
Pay attention. ]
Roll over.
[ He straightens, facing the bed and Claude who looks a little small against it all of a sudden. Yes, he'd be easy to break, particularly now that someone else has already fractured his foundation - then again, such fractures can be filled and depending on how you do it, they can be strengthened beyond their original capabilities, too. Depending on how. He steps closer, keeping his bottoms on for now and waits for Claude to lie down and get properly comfortable. He unscrews the lid on the lube, tossing it backwards without looking, straight into the open washbag.
[ It dawns on him, as Jean Louis gets up to get the lube and condoms, that he hasn't actively done anal, except some assplay during masturbation every now and then, in about seven years. He's practically an anal virgin again, huh. Something about the thought excites him, something about starting over fresh with Jean Louis makes his cock harden the rest of the way when the other man tells him to roll over and Claude does, absent-mindedly thinking he wouldn't have minded it face to face, but this is easier, less contortion, less stretch. Jean Louis wants to start out soft with him.
It makes his breath catch in his throat, not like a surprise, but like a gift, regardless. He thinks he knows the other man well enough at this point, this is what he'd have expected, if Claude expected anything of individuals. He saves his expectations for the systems, the structures, the intricate patterns that make the world go around the way it does, the non-satisfactory way it insists on.
The mental image of Jean Louis, standing there, looking at him, is practically making his balls tighten and he shifts slightly to make more room for his cock, feeling throbbing and hot against his belly at this point. The last time anyone took him anally, he was 18 and his mom had contacted Rainier without his knowledge, threatening him with police and Rainier hadn't said anything about it either when they met for their usual Wednesday fuck at his teacher's house, just pushed him over the dining room table, flipped him around and fucked him hard, trousers around his ankles. Only afterwards, he'd said: I was certain you were too old to run to Maman, Claude. Disappointing.
When he'd gotten home, his ass smarting and his gait a little stiff, his mom had freaked on him for two consecutive hours.
It had been the last time. And the last day of their relationship.
Like this is the first time and maybe, in a way, the first day. He folds his arms beneath his head, turning his face to the side to glance over at Jean Louis, waiting for him to join him on the bed again. He's too far away, like this, even as he steps up to the side of the bed. Too much distance. When Claude wants close and closer and in. ]
Got experience in ordering people around, don't you?
[ It's said with a smile, content. It also just means, got experience? In all of it, making people roll over and fucking them. ]
[ Concerning both the spoken question and the underlying one - he's got experience enough, he'd say, for the two of them. It's not even a matter of experience, really, experience has become a secondary gain from an inherent necessity. From he was very young taking leadership has simply been a given (if not him, then no one) and fortunately, it comes naturally to him. In bed and out of bed. He joins Claude on the bed, lying down on his side once more, stretching out next to him and entwining their feet. His own are slightly cool from the floorboards and Claude, on the other hand, is warm from the duvet and the bed and from crawling into Jean Louis' space. They go together perfectly like that.
As he lies down on his elbow, their faces are inches away. He runs his fingers across Claude's cheek, jawline. Tilts his head upwards slightly by the chin and kisses him, his breathing slow and even against the other man's lips. He spreads his other hand over the small of Claude's back, brushing over the skin there before pushing his fingers beneath the hem of his briefs and running the full width of his palm down his left buttock. He massages him slowly, fingertips slipping slightly into the cleft of his arse, brushing over his arsehole briefly, feather-light. He's burning hot there, a little damp from sweat, and his cock jerks against his thigh, not just eager but fucking impatient.
He ignores it and slips his tongue past Claude's lips, taking his mouth instead, keeping his hand still against his arse briefly before switching to the other side.
It doesn't bother him, going slow. He's gone at every pace imaginable when it comes to anal sex - both ways, across genders. His first time was early, earlier perhaps than most, and it just means that he knows how it works, how it doesn't work, and that Claude might want to be fucked but perhaps beneath it all, what he wants to be is cherished.
And whilst anal sex can be many things, if it's about the latter there's really only one way to go.
[ Lying down next to him, stretching out, on his side, Jean Louis entwines their feet, his slightly cool from being out of bed and Claude catches them between his own, holding him, toes digging in along ankles, heels, curving along the chilly lines of him. He feels his face being caressed, blinking against the sparse light, looking at Jean Louis across the small distance that exists between their faces, until the other man tilts his face upwards by his chin and kisses him, pushing against his mouth softly, taking his lips, letting him feel those parts of himself acutely.
Meanwhile, his hand has sought beneath the hem of Claude's briefs, Claude's cock jerking enthusiastically in its entrapment. Oh. He wonders what he's been bereft, all these years, what Rainier took from him, by taking it first and not giving it back. He breathes in deeply, shakily when Jean Louis' fingers slip into the cleft of his ass, fingertips brushing over his asshole gently, just a short time, enough to remind him where he wants to go, where Claude wants him to go, too, but not long enough to force entry or even put any expectations on him, physically. It's just Claude's want right now, Claude's cock throbbing and getting wet at the tip - those things dictate for now. Maybe they'll be allowed to dictate the whole way.
Which means, Jean Louis might be used to having control, but for now - he's giving control back to Claude.
So, when the other man fills his mouth with his tongue, licking into him, taking that hole rather than the other, Claude moans, a muffled, low sound, as is necessary because - Céline next door, right, the arm closest to him coming up, five fingers running through Jean Louis' hair, stroking it backwards, into the hairstyle he prefers.
It's about that as well. He wants them both to want this, in this way. He wants them to merge in more than body, more than cock in ass, more than limb in hole.
Arching his back when Jean Louis repeats the motion, massaging his buttock, then slipping his fingers down his cleft, no pressure, just presence, Claude pushes his ass up into his grasp, wordlessly asking for more and please and oh, although he doesn't stop kissing the other man back either. Like, he can be greedy, he can want to be filled in all empty parts of him at once.
Nothing wrong with that. He was brought up liberal, he knows. ]
[ He makes a low sound against Claude's lips as the other man runs his fingers through his hair, the familiar motion calming - like smoothing down, putting things in order. Claude pushes up against his fingers, clearly saying more, give it, fuck me, and it's good to know they're on the right track, that he's leading them in the exact right direction. That's the kind of luxury leadership is rarely afforded, isn't it. That certainty. In that way, perhaps Claude is right that consent is important, not just in terms of re-routing gender roles and taking down power structures (Jean Louis is all in favour of that, so long as the power stays where he wants it so that's probably not quite what the man's got in mind) - but it's a gift the other way, too.
He breaks the kiss, panting slightly, nearly soundlessly. Looking at Claude, his hand curved over his other buttock, he finally untangles his hand from within his briefs and pulls at the hem, nudging them down over his hips, giving Claude time to work with him, to adjust himself and his hard cock accordingly. The briefs slide down his thighs and Jean Louis gets on his knees to work them off the rest of the way. Dropping them on the floor by the bed, he turns back to the other man, looking over the long, soft lines of his legs, thighs, arse - and upwards, all the way to his shoulders and his curls and the beautiful lines of his face. Treasure, he'd called him earlier in the evening. Like this, it's blatantly obvious.
Breathing coming out a bit shaky on his next exhalation, he shifts onto his side once more, lies down next to Claude but keeps himself propped up on his elbow for balance. With the other hand, he picks up the lube and squeezes some onto his palm, rubbing his fingers together briefly to warm it. ]
Shame that you can't be loud.
[ He leans down, kissing the back of Claude's head, lips slipping into his hair. ]
Let me know if I'm doing something wrong.
[ With that, he runs two, slick fingers down the crack of Claude's arse, pressing his fingertips in along the soft skin there, from right beneath his tailbone to his opening and a few inches beneath it, too. He draws his fingers upwards again, pausing over the rim of his arsehole this time and pressing inwards very slightly, not really enough to penetrate. He feels the tightness of him, the heat. His breath trembles out of him and he shifts, the tension in his balls quite hard to ignore at this point.
Leaning down, he pushes his lips against the back of Claude's neck with just enough pressure to signal down, and it isn't really an order - rather, it's a recommendation, perhaps, or guidance because seconds later, he presses the full length of his index finger into him, feeling his arsehole stretching easily around it. He sinks in all the way to the last knuckle, slowly, mindful of any resistance. ]
[ His briefs get worked off easily, landing somewhere out in the darkness of the rest of the room, there's just the two of them, the bedside lamp and the circle it creates where they exist. The rest is shadow. Claude finds his comfortable position once more, feeling Jean Louis lie back down next to him, propped up on his elbow and leaning in to kiss the back of his head, all his curls, he hopes he smells like sweat and arousal. He hopes the other man can smell all that on him. That it turns him on. His own cock, now lying snugly against his abdomen jerks at the thought, like sympathy of some kind. Empathy, he'd said to Jean Louis that first time they met, seeing how blank it left him looking. He doens't know, politically, maybe, but he knows here, between them.
That's good enough. That's perfect.
Let me know if I'm doing anything wrong, he says and Claude smiles, mutters sure, before the other man trails two lube-slick fingers down from his tailbone to over his asshole, to just below it. Giving him the sensation of that whole -- area existing, very much alive and kicking, apparently. He wants to tell Jean Louis that he can be loud enough, definitely, but then the other man leans down and kisses the back of his neck, applying the whole breadth of his torso to tell him, down and stay, probably, then pushing his whole fucking index finger into him, one long, insistent stretch and Claude's ass giving easily, opening and there's that feeling, of being open again, of being vulnerable, of giving, and he croaks out something before remembering himself, biting his lower lip and feeling the muscles in his thighs tighten, releasing, tighten on repeat while his hips lie still only because he wills them to. Down, right? Down. He stays down, taking it, Jean Louis' finger, feeling receptive and willing against him, against the feel of his knuckles, his hand pressing against his buttocks.
Claude is panting now, pressing his forehead down against his bent arm, everything on him feeling tight and wanting, wanting so much. More. More.
There's a brief moment where he remembers his first time with Rainier, like this, too, fingers in his ass, scissoring him open, then it's gone and it doesn't matter. What he liked then and what he likes now -- well, they're two different Claudes with different preferences. He wanted Rainier once and then he stopped wanting him. Now he wants Jean Louis and that hasn't stopped. That's what he knows. That, and the feeling of being full, of being open to him.
His voice sounds hoarse and a little bit lighter with air than usually when he speaks, turning his head and looking sideways at Jean Louis. ]
Fuck, I'd forgotten that feeling of opening up to -- [ Pant, pant. ] -- someone else. [ Forehead back to pressing against his arm. He forces himself to relax, his asshole tangibly loosening, then tightening slightly again, then loosening, opening up. ] God, you feel good.
[ He slides in easily. Claude isn't a novice, after all, and it's obvious from the way he makes himself relax, meeting Jean Louis' inward stroke with openness. He tenses at intervals, relaxing immediately after and Jean Louis simply stays like that for a moment, allowing him time to get himself reacquainted with the mechanics of it. He can feel the other man's shoulders rising and falling beneath him as he pants, his scent strong, heavy with both his own, natural colours and arousal. Sweat. Musk. Sex. Jean Louis pulls his finger out, halfway first, crooking it slightly to brush over his prostate on the way. ]
It'll feel better.
[ It's a fact, not a promise. Again, he doesn't care for the latter; it reeks of uncertainty, of illusions - a trick that relies too heavily on the whims and wills of the person who makes the offering. Promises are, as they say, cheap. They mean nothing (and he knows nothing, perhaps better than many). He kisses a path from Claude's nape to his shoulder before flattening his tongue against his skin, tasting him fully. Salt and something a little warmer, something complex.
He pulls his finger out of Claude's arse, nearly all the way and adds his middle finger next to it, probing his arsehole for a few seconds just to give him a signal before pushing in. He works both fingers in deep once more, past the tightness of his rim. He's all soft walls and heat on the inside as he buries his fingers to the last knuckles and pulls out only partially before going back inside. He takes care to get his prostate on every outstroke, too - if the other man isn't leaking onto the bed already, he definitely will be now.
A lovely mental image. His cock twitches pitifully but it'll have to wait - the more he wants it, the better. Maybe some other time, they can fuck for an hour, if Claude wants, if he doesn't mind that raw feeling that comes after, the reminder every single time you try to sit. To Jean Louis, it depends. That's how he knows it's not tonight. ]
[ Jean Louis remains a presence against his upper backside, shoulder blades, shoulders and the nape of his neck, lips kissing him, tongue licking over his shoulder, the pressure of his body, the weight of him - heavy and comforting, keeping him in place while his fingers slide in, then out, then oh fuck yes prostate and his cock is achingly hard now, leaking precum all over his stomach and the sheets. He shifts a bit helplessly, moaning at the back of his throat where it won't become too loud, high-pitched or shrill. Because trust him, he can get shrill. He remembers from back then, he can reach heights you wouldn't think his otherwise deep voice could manage.
Warning him with a slight probe of two fingers, Claude relaxes and lets him, lets him inside, two fingers at once, pushing into him to the knuckles in a firm, easy, smooth slide and Claude is panting hard now, face pressed sideways into the mattress, staring at nothing but the shadows around them, curls falling into his eyes. Oh, fuck. It's so good. How could he forget how good this part is, the outstroke, prostate... ]
Fuck, Jean Louis -- [ He makes a very restrained whining sound as the other man withdraws his fingers halfway, then back in, repeat, something that could be rhythm, but is definitely pressure and fullness. Shit. He shifts again, his balls tight and almost hurting from it. From want. ] If it gets much better, I'm gonna come, fucking hell.
[ Spreading his legs invitingly, the muscles of his thighs tight and trembling, Claude presses his forehead into the mattress and tries not to be loud, Céline won't ever stop letting him hear for it, if he wakes her up while fucking, but he's almost on the verge of not caring. Not caring about his sisters or his mother or his party or his politics, his principles, any of it. He just wants Jean Louis fucking inside him, he wants to feel him there, where he's been empty for so long, been empty since everything ended and nothing began.
Something is beginning, tonight. In the future, they're gonna fuck in dark alleys and for hours on Saturday mornings. He... He wants them to have that kind of relationship.
He wants them to have a relationship, full stop. They need to verbalize that, probably, later, when he's come and Jean Louis has come with him and they're one again. He needs the other man to know, he wants them to be together, going forward. He wants them to be together, future tense. He wants them to be together, repeatedly. Until he can't fucking walk anymore.
He wants... Easing up on his knees a little bit, giving himself room but at the same time, pushing his ass well and truly up against the other man's fingers, meeting them, chasing the stroke, the slide, the push against prostate himself, Claude reaches underneath himself and closes his fingers around his cock, near the base, starving off his arousal a bit, just reigning himself in.
[ Claude, as it turns out, isn't very good at being quiet. That's not surprising. Jean Louis smiles thinly, focused as he is on other things, as Claude tells him he's gonna come, fucking hell and I want to come on your cock, just spouting dirty talk like it's his new, favourite kind of proposition. Jean Louis, meanwhile, has to shift again, his movements rougher now as his arousal goes up, his balls aching with tension. Claude's arse is warm and tight around his fingers and he keeps thinking about what he'll be like when he sinks into him for real, the full length of his cock, just buried to the hilt. He groans against Claude's shoulder, fucking into him harder with his fingers, meeting the push of Claude's arse. Keep going like this, there'll be a rhythm and a pace to it and yeah, eventually this will become a finger-fucking session rather than what Claude's actually asking for.
Won't do, of course.
He nods against Claude's shoulder and pulls both fingers out carefully, rubbing the tips over his rim a few times, feeling the muscle twitch in response. Then, he rolls onto his side and twists out of his pajama bottoms, pushing them to the floor with his feet. His cock's hard against his stomach and wet at the tip. Quickly, he unwraps the condom and rolls it on, not too much finesse, before he coats his palm in lube once more and slicks himself up. Turning onto his hip, one hand holding the condom in place, he looks at Claude for a moment before leaning down, kissing a wet trail from the small of his back and up the length of his spine. He follows his own path all the way to Claude's neck and shifts onto his knees, positioning himself above the other man, one leg on either side of his body.
Like that, slowly, he lowers himself until his front is pressed against Claude's back. He takes a firm grip on himself and guides his cock along the crack of Claude's arse, finding his arsehole easily now that he's spent the past minutes fingering it open. He presses the head of his cock against it without pushing in, feeling the rim stretch and give, opening around him. He breathes roughly, his pulse quickening - in a moment, in a moment - ]
Tell me again.
[ And the unspoken echoes underneath: That you want it. What you want. Tell me. Say it out loud. His voice is a hoarse whisper against the side of Claude's head, lips brushing against his ear. ]
[ Jean Louis' fingers slip out carefully, just rubbing over his rim as they go and leaving Claude's asshole gaping wide, leaving him feeling open and exposed and there for the taking, and he fucking loves that feeling, he loves giving himself over - when it's Jean Louis, when it's that man, it's fine, he doesn't mind it. He wants it, he wants it so bad.
Making an dissatisfied sound as the other man's fingers finally slip out completely, shifting and holding himself off, Claude eases up on his knees a bit more as Jean Louis goes about the practicalities, condom, lube, making everything ready for easy interlocking, right, if you wanna be really grossly mechanical about it. He wants Jean Louis all the way inside, he wants to feel the full length of him, hard and throbbing, inside his ass, he wants him to sit there a long moment, filling him out, and then Claude wants him to fuck him until everything that cracked before is filled, too. It's actually a pretty easy thing. You'd think. But it's taken so long to get here. And so many people, it's taken as well.
When Jean Louis is ready, he doesn't speed up, he doesn't force himself, instead kissing a wet trail up Claude's spine, making everything tingle, his asshole contracting a few times at the feeling. Once he gets as far as Claude's nape, the low dip of his neck there, he positions himself over him, making Claude's balls draw up almost painfully and he tightens his grip on himself, face still pressed into the mattress and it's good like this, it's close, it's safe. He is panting hard, feeling the other man trace his cock over his gaping asshole, thinking it'll fit, that they can fit like that.
Leaning in over him, so he's got his whole weight in over his backside and it's almost overwhelming, there's a brief moment where he remembers the dining room table and Rainier, breathing heavily against him, but then it's gone, like it's been magically disspelled and there's only Jean Louis' voice, tell me again, and the hoarse whisper of his exhalations against the side of Claude's face. He whimpers, literally whimpers, shifting, shifting, pushing back, desperate for it. ]
I want to feel your cock, I want you to make me come from it.
[ He shivers against Claude's back, his words making his arousal feel urgent, his body tingling all over. With a low groan, he kisses the side of Claude's neck, right near the nape, and pushes in. The resistance is minimal - Claude wants it, his body is basically wide open, waiting to swallow him up - and as he pushes in all the way to the base, he pauses only a couple of times to let the other man catch up to him, feeling the way his body responds and responding in kind. In that way, sex really is the closest, most instinctual kind of communication that he knows. It feels so self-evident. Eyes falling shut, he rolls his hips slowly, finding his way into the other man's body until he can't go any deeper. The tightness and warmth around his cock is almost impossible - his mind takes a moment to fully comprehend it but once he feels it, he's there. ]
Fuck, you feel -
[ He swallows his next words, everything in his body telling him to move, to get that sense of friction, of thrust. He breathes hard against the side of Claude's neck and pulls out halfway before thrusting back inside. ]
- ah - you feel good. Perfect.
[ He folds his left arm around Claude's front, over chest and collarbones, taking the pressure off his bad shoulder and pulling Claude just a bit upwards, up against his own chest and closer. He's not being harsh about it - after all, the human body isn't a fucking noodle, it doesn't just stretch in any and all directions - but insistent, all the same. Come here, it means. He starts fucking him slowly, keeping the rhythm deep rather than hurried, the bed creaking beneath them. The heat in his belly doubles and he's breathing harshly, working himself in and out, his pace even.
He can feel his own climax building, his balls tight and drawn. Shifting, he angles himself in an approximation of his fingers, earlier, going for Claude's prostate and expecting to get it. As Claude said, he has experience. And experience is only worth as many benefits as it reaps. ]
[ The moment he might have feared, if he wasn't so busy being swallowed up by arousal, is the moment when Jean Louis pushes in, past his rim and slowly, slowly seating himself in his body, inch by inch by fucking inch and his cock feels like a fucking baseball bat, doesn't it? He feels like something massive and all-encompassing that is overtaking his body from within and Claude loves it, he sinks into the feeling of not being empty any longer, not being alone. He's not alone in this, there's physical proof, physical fullness to prove he isn't. Jean Louis pushes in, drawing back, making Claude whine slightly and instinctually tighten around him, to keep him there, but of course he pull out and of course, he pushes in again and Claude follows the rhythm of it. The slow pace, the carefulness. He's very grateful, really. He is.
He's also just very fucking horny.
When Jean Louis folds his arm around his chest and heaves him up, it takes all Claude's fucking willpower not to come on the spot, his fingers tightening around his hard, throbbing cock, holding himself back, forcing himself to hold, stay, come here, Jean Louis says to finish it all off and he supports himself on his other arm, elbow digging into the mattress and his whole back arching sharply, feeling every thrust of Jean Louis' hips into the bones of him.
The pace is even and unhurried and Claude basically wants to scream, moaning loudly at this point when Jean Louis aims for his prostate and gets it just right, his cock spurting precum between his fingers. He's panting harshly, not even trying to keep quiet anymore, the bed creaking in time with their movements and his body feeling overheated, throbbing, head to toe. His thigh muscles jerk, almost making him collapse in on himself as Jean Louis hits his prostate. His asshole tightens up harshly, too. ]
Fuck, fuck, do it again, harder... [ A hoarse whimper, his shoulders rolling as he pushes back against the other man's cock, more or less forcing him back inside, over that spot, come here, all right. ] Jean Louis, you feel so fucking hard --
[ Although there are still faint tears streaks on his cheeks, they don't mean anything now, they don't even register. Claude is frowning harshly, eyes closed, his face contorted in pleasure, lips parted, panting, panting hard. ]
[ Claude moves with him, beneath him and around him. It's all-consuming. Eyes shut and breathing hard, Jean Louis follows his movements and does it again - and again - keeping the angle somewhat consistent while he feels his body building up faster and faster. Claude's holding his own cock, he can sense it from the angle of his shoulder and he's not going to make him let go, he's going to let him take his own pleasure the way he wants - however, the noise he's making in this old house with its tiny rooms is a different story. He likes listening to it. He'd like to touch it even better.
So, as he fucks into Claude, burying deep and pushing them both towards the edge without rushing, just doing what works, he folds his hand sloppily around Claude's mouth and chin, muffling his sounds. He kisses him along the side of his face, his temple and his cheekbone, breathing raggedly. ]
Now, Claude. [ He shifts. Kisses the bridge of Claude's nose. ] Be as loud as you want.
[ He takes a deep breath, angles himself properly and drives into him, hard enough to make the bed shake and the floor whine beneath them. The sudden increase in friction, the power of his thrusts, makes his balls tighten up to the point of pain. He ignores it. It's the edge and they're going over it, not with him dragging Claude like Rainier would have done, he would have pushed him and kicked him towards it and what a boring exercise that must have been. What a boring little man. No, he's not dragging Claude at all, he's running with him and for some reason, the thought of Claude taking his hand and just holding it pops into his mind, front and center; the way he does at seemingly random times throughout the day like it's perfectly normal, like anyone's ever done that before -
He gasps. Buries his head in Claude's shoulder by his neck, open-mouthed, teeth scraping over his shoulder as he spends himself on the next thrust, his climax sweeping over him so violently that he can't breathe for it. ]
[ The fucking itself would've been enough on its own, really, the sensation of being full (not empty), close (and not alone), all empty spaces filled with cock and company. It would've been enough to make him come, the way Jean Louis drives into him, hitting his prostate on every other stroke. It would've been enough, if he'd just jerked himself off to that, feeling that, not empty, not alone. It would've been enough, for sure.
But then, Jean Louis clamps his hand over his mouth, leaning in enough to kiss his face gently, more gently than his hand, whispering against him, be as loud as you want. Meaning, I'll take the rest, I'll deal with it, you don't have to worry. You don't have to worry anymore.
It goes both ways, Claude thinks hazily, his vision blurring at this point, as he starts jerking himself off harshly, chasing his climax with desperate zeal. Right back at you, Jean Louis. But that's all he has time to think, because Jean Louis is building it up like a piece of art, taking him there, taking him beyond and there's a moment when he hits his prostate again, when Claude thinks he might either die or fly and he can't decide which it'll be and both would be fine, right now. Right now, it's all good.
At this point, he's sobbing out words without meaning, basic sounds, fuck, fuck, fuck, and when he feels Jean Louis come, first, in him, inside his body, condom notwithstanding, it rises in pitch to something louder and clearer and yet, Jean Louis' hand takes most of it, so when he shouts out his own orgasm, a desperate, broken sound that sounds like a victory cry anyway, because it is, he did it and he did it without Rainier, it sounds more like a muffled hmph. Audible, sure, but not alarming. Not alarming.
Dripping cum all over the mattress, Claude eventually - more or less - collapses onto the bed, knees giving out, arm, shoulders slumping, he's breathing hard into Jean Louis' now very wet and overheated palm and he smells like Claude himself, but also like him and Claude is surrounded by him on all sides. Inside and out. His vision is dark around the edges, probably a lack of oxygen, so he wrestles his face free from Jean Louis' hand, which is easily done, it wasn't forced like that, and turns it towards the other man, where he's pressing in against Claude's shoulder. ]
You're -- [ His breathing is still a little too fast, a little too shallow. His voice sounds raw. ] -- precious, Jean Louis. You're invaluable.
[ You're not your riches or your accomplishments, what you are is mine, it means. ]
[ Claude follows him over the edge moments later, his arse clamping down around him, milking his cock for whatever's left and he groans, his shoulders trembling as he makes one, final thrust. Then, pause. Quiet, except for the sounds of their breaths mingling and the echoes of Claude's cry (he'll hear that when he masturbates for the next many, many days to come, that sound, just Claude letting go, allowing himself).
Slowly, carefully, he eases himself out of Claude's body, holding onto the condom with his free hand, the one that's got the imprints of Claude's breath and his cries and his bravery all over it. Rolling it off, tying it and trowing away takes seconds, seconds that he barely even notices - then, his breathing slow and heavy, he lies down next to Claude, up against his side, nudging Claude until he lies on his side with his back to him. Like that, he curls up around him, twists their legs together and pushes his face into his hair. You're precious, says Claude, pretty words that shouldn't mean anything to him. He's been many things in his life to many people; precious isn't one of them.
Invaluable, he says.
He takes a deep breath. Locks his arm around Claude's waist and reaches for the duvet blindly, managing to wrangle it from beneath them to throw it over Claude, first, himself second. He doesn't like to be covered completely when he sleeps, it makes him feel locked down.
Yes, he's been locked down (and thrown away) many times and logically, that's really not what you do to something precious or invaluable but Claude's not the type to lie so maybe he knows something else about the world, the strange world he inhabits. The rules are different there. It takes something he doesn't know about to live in it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It was luck.
[ He looks at the other man, on his stomach now, the duvet pulled up to the small of his back, his back strong-looking, the kind that says healthy and young. He knows what his own says - it's why the scarring's getting covered in artwork as soon as it's healed up enough not to worsen by it. Claude needs no such theatre to be whole. It's just the way he is.
Getting into bed next to him and shifting onto his side, facing him, Jean Louis gives into the impulse right beneath his skin and reaches for him, running his hand down the back of his neck, along the width of his shoulders. He moves slowly, without any kind of hurry. It's no longer late, after all. It's early. They have hours to go before sunrise. He doesn't know whether Claude wants to simply sleep - it's his mother's house, after all, who can say - but everything, even something that ends with nothing, has a start. ]
Luck, and a very insistent street vendor. [ His voice is low, to fit the small space around them, the bubble that's once again closing in, keeping their surroundings out. ] It's a family heirloom, I'm told - passed along for decades. Eventually, however, the line came to an end and its previous owner no longer had anyone to give it to - according to him, no one alive or deserving.
[ He runs his hand over Claude's back, fingers following the curve of his spine downwards. ]
They value change, he said, amongst themselves. It seemed fitting.
no subject
[ It doesn't just come with age, the present, it comes with a story - the kind you can get told when shopping at the St-Ouen markets, because it's real people who're passing along real, living history for money. If you're inclined to listen - and apparently Jean Louis got stopped and he got talked to, but most importantly, he listened and Claude wants to eat him now, he doesn't care about his sister next door, he's listened to her suck off her boyfriends a zillion times. This is fair trade.
Arching into the touch of Jean Louis' fingers, he listens, too, listen to him say, they value change, it seemed fitting. Because he knows, that's the foundation they met on, that Claude is working to change the very world order than Jean Louis represents and is ruling by. They shouldn't be able to co-exist, let alone want to engage in anything more intimate, but here they are and Claude has never met anyone who was as good at understanding him, making room for him in this world than Jean Louis is.
But there are things Jean Louis can't understand about him, things he doesn't even know, like - why Claude hasn't initiated anal yet, why he never invites more when Jean Louis makes it clear as day that he favours his ass. And Claude wonders, lying there on his front, chin resting on one bent arm, whether it's the real Claude Jean Louis is buying presents for, as long as it's unsaid, secret. There will always be a part of him obscured, if he doesn't open up about that. That thing. That terrible, destructive thing that doesn't fit with the rest of him (or maybe it does, right, maybe it fits better than anything).
Swallowing as the other man's fingers follow the curve of his spine down to where the duvet covers the curve of his ass, the rise of his ass cheeks, he eventually, slowly, oh so slowly, turns onto his side, breaking the touch. However, rather than letting the other man withdraw as he imagines he would, because Jean Louis is quick to read the room, a room, any room, he grabs his wrist and keeps his hand close for a moment, before placing it against his hip, jutting out from underneath the orange-red duvet. ]
Jean Louis, there's something I need you to know, before we -- [ -- move on to the ass stuff, he wants to say, not make too big a deal out of it, and because he does want to, he does want to share that with Jean Louis, too, but he can't even say the words. All he hears at the back of his head is Rainier's voice, one heavy arm around his shoulders as they leave the classroom together, lowered, discreet, I don't think you've deserved to come today when I fuck you later. Clearing his throat, he quickly gets himself under control, shaking his head softly. ] -- There's a reason that bill was so important to me. I guess, like all the strongest incentives in the world, it was very personal.
[ Pause. He wants to just tell him. Make it simple, but it isn't, that's the fucking problem, isn't it? It's not that he wants Jean Louis to guess, but his mind is blank insofar as how you let someone in. He's never done it before. And it was one thing Rainier definitely didn't teach him either. ]
no subject
He thinks about the light in Claude's eyes, the warmth, and his hand curls tighter against his hip.
Then, Claude looks up at him, the two of them front to front now, and tells him that there's something he needs to know, his words faltering as he swallows, clears his throat, all of those communicational tics that you learn not to exhibit in their line of work. He doesn't, usually. Claude is a very, very good orator. But now, he needs to tell Jean Louis something and that something sticks in his throat in a way that cripples him, visibly. Consent, he thinks as Claude pauses, that bill is about consent and a part of him tightens from anger before he even knows where they're headed. ]
Personal.
[ He sees a few options, none of them acceptable. But this is Claude's story and Jean Louis has never had a hard time listening to others. Under different circumstances, it's a great way to gain information without having to trade anything back - that said (and as a direct consequence), normally he's not particularly emotionally invested in what's being shared.
Right now, he has to very consciously force himself to allow Claude the space to himself, his voice perhaps a little bit too quiet, a little bit too still as he just adds: ]
How so?
no subject
It's the fact that Jean Louis doesn't assume anything, but lets him talk that urges him on, making Claude inch a bit closer to him, carefully, hesitantly, needing the proximity but unsure whether -- to this day, it still makes him feel wrong. Rainier does. Existing somewhere out there, that man still has such a great impact over him. He hates it. He detests it.
Claude's voice is quiet as he forces himself into a neutral start, words deliberately pronounced, like he's doing a speech somewhere important and honestly, he can't imagine a more important forum than this. Between the two of them. No secrets. Open hands. ]
I know what it's like when consent gets blurry. When the power dynamics in a relationship get skewed due to difference in position.
[ A hard intake of breath and he blinks a few times, angling his face upwards, to look up at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head back towards Jean Louis. They're lying in perfect parallel. His body. Claude's. He wants them to cross rather than this -- not touching, never touching. He wants them to touch, he wants Jean Louis to be more than his hand and Claude to be more than his hip.
He wants them to run together. ]
When I was seventeen, in my second year of lycée, I started a sexual relationship to my French teacher. He was 25 years older than me, early fourties, and we'd been flirting for most of first year. He was the first man I slept with. [ He falters, wetting his lips and being unable, to this day, to put into words why that relationship was so necessary to him, why it ended up being Rainier and not some sweet romance with one of his friends, what made that extra sense of risk necessary. So, Claude decides to just say it like he remembers it, but arranged the way therapy at least has taught him to do. The right order, but not necessarily the order that makes the most sense to his nervous system, just because his head understand. ] In the beginning, it felt like - just any relationship, I guess, though honestly, this was my first one, so how was I to know? Down the line, though, Rainier began becoming possessive and manipulative. I couldn't tell at the time, but looking back, it's... Yeah. Obvious. [ A shaking intake of breath. Claude meets Jean Louis' eyes directly, no hesitation, no holding back. This is the crux of it. The heart. The violently beating heart. ] He used sex against me a lot. Edging in bed, not respecting my no's, hard anal when he was dissatisfied with me. That kind of thing. I just thought -- I just thought that was how it was. Part of being an adult.
[ A few more inches, then he's almost but not quite pushing against Jean Louis' front, they're directly face to face, looking at each other, into each other. Claude frowns and doesn't know how to wrap it up, where to end it. When it's too much, TMI or whatever. But he wants to tie it up with today, with the here and now, so he adds after a moment of silence: ]
The worst thing was how I continued to long for his affection and approval, even after my mom put an end to it. I spent years, afterwards, on not being able to connect to others, especially men my own age. I just felt really removed. You're the first... I...
[ I've wanted, in general. Or, I've wanted to fuck me, specifically. He can't decide, so he lets it hang unspecificed in the air between them. ]
no subject
Though the other man doesn't say it, underneath many of his sentences, spoken with a shaky breath and words that clearly hurt him from where they start to where they finish, he hears one, simple, perceived truth: I am the kind of person who is wrong.
Eyes slowly narrowing to slits as Claude trails off, the silence between them stretching on for seconds, one after the other, he finally just flattens his hand against the small of his back, nudging him inwards the rest of way, until they're pressed up against each other on the bed, their legs entangled and Claude's chin poking his shoulder. He can feel the other man's breath, the tension in his body. He thinks about Rainier and how he'd like to end him. It's not the physical, living body that's the worst, though - that part is easy. It's the one stuck inside Claude's head, in his body, like that nasty old pervert somehow managed to clone himself by his pitiful actions - to breed, to infect.
Yes, such a thing is infinitely harder to kill. ]
Indeed, you must do what you can to eradicate him.
[ He says it without much inflection in his voice, without harshness or drama. It's a fact. He treats it as such. ]
And what he's managed to eradicate, you re-built in a way that suits you. Only you, no one else. [ He runs his other hand through Claude's curls slowly, fingertips gliding over his scalp, careful not to pull. ] No one else.
no subject
And then, he sounds like safety, too, when he in that language that is so typical of him, tells Claude to eradicate Rainier, tells him to do away with him in whatever way he can - and the parts that Rainier took, he must rebuild to suit him. No one else, Jean Louis mutters, touching Claude's hair gently, touching it softly and with tenderness. No one else, not even Jean Louis. It has to be Claude's very own.
Own it, he can almost hear him say. Like liberals own everything and the world, too, but maybe in this - and only in this - there's a point to take away from it. Maybe there is, right?
Lying like that, Jean Louis' hairy chest pressing against him, warm and soft and tender like the rest, he was never anything but consistent, Claude feels it come over him, the sorrow he often feels, not at losing Rainier, but at what Rainier took with him and which he won't get back. Sure, like Jean Louis said, he can rebuilt, but if you wanted what was, the history of it, new cufflinks in a modern design just aren't the same. What can he say, he wants to be unspoiled.
He wants to be unspoiled.
A deep, shaking breath and he reaches up with both hands, pressing them against the place where midriff becomes chest, spreading out his fingers and touching as much of the other man as he can manage, palms and fingertips and anything that can take him in. He wants to merge with him, he wants to carry him inside. It's not a spontanous thing, either, it's not just in light of this, it's in light of all of it. Everything Jean Louis is to him.
He wants to feel him, closer than this, even, until there are only their own barriers left and like Jean Louis says, those are for them to define. Give value. Take value from.
So, Claude turns his head to the side, pushing his at this point tear-streaked face in against the side of Jean Louis' neck, nodding a few times to show, he's listening, he gets it, he even agrees, imagine that. He smells like sweat and old Armani Code there, where there's pulse point and bobbing Adam's apple. Claude nuzzles in, nose first, then lips. Hungry, parted lips. ]
Fine, I'm starting now.
[ His voice is thick, but sure. ]
no subject
Just as Claude carries Rainier's mistakes with him even now, even here, he would carry Jean Louis' as well. If he were to stoop.
Like he told Camille, he doesn't gamble with his treasures.
After a moment, Claude pushes his face against the side of his neck and he's clearly been crying if he isn't still, though he isn't doing so audibly. The thought makes his chest tighten, though he never cries himself; there's something about seeing it in others, the helplessness associated with tears that he doesn't like. Claude's breathing sounds ragged, though when he leans in and parts his lips over Jean Louis' throat, it feels equal parts hot and wet. Jean Louis looks at him, frowning slightly. I'm starting now, he says and there's pain in his voice, still, along with certainty, something that feels strong and unyielding, traits that are also Claude's to a fault.
He looks at Claude for another moment through the shadows. Then, carefully, he rolls Claude onto his back on the bed, moving with him, until they're once again front to front. He keeps his balance on his knees to avoid putting all his weight on the other man and leans in, kissing his way up the side of his neck slowly. ]
And how would you like to start?
[ He nibbles at Claude's ear, his curls tickling his nose. Jean Louis breathes him in, in turn. ]
no subject
And how would you like to start, Jean Louis wants to know, assuming nothing and that means, it's Claude's call completely. Which means, he should make safe choices, he should start slow, let's frot, let's sixty-nine, maybe fingers, if he really insists on taking back his ass, reclaiming that part of himself, but maybe that's the point. Claude has never been the type to go slow and not take risks, would he be a politician at all, if he didn't - the thing with Rainier was plenty proof, but not everyone he sleeps with is Rainier and not every risk is not calculated, is not considered and not every risk won't yield a success, once taken, once run.
Because what happened with Rainier didn't happen because of any risk Claude ran. It happened because of the wrong decisions Rainier made, not the other way around.
He breathes out slowly, easily, slightly shakily, feeling Jean Louis close, feeling the outline of his nose, feeling the soft moistness of his lips. His body knows these things, his mind knows them, his heart does. He doesn't have to be afraid of making wrong calls here, because whatever call he makes, he makes them for himself and they're his own. In a way that suits you, no one else, Jean Louis said.
Well, this suits him. His cock is already starting to fill, hardening slightly between his legs. He shifts, turns his face back in against the side of the other man's face, lips close to his ear, not nibbling, but saying: ]
I want you to fuck me.
[ It's slow, deliberate, every word drawn out for a moment. Oratory techniques or whatever. Claude swallows and licks his lips, adding, because while he takes risks, he also knows how far to go, what safety measures to insist on. Problematizing doing anal for the first time in seven years in his mother's house of all places is not something to insist on. Prep, however, is. ]
There's lube and condoms in my washbag. You're free to go rummage or I can do it.
no subject
As he gets to his feet to rummage, however, he thinks that maybe all of this is it. The gift. Claude's expression. The tear tracks still faintly visible on his cheeks. The feel of him, pressed against his front, holding on because for some reason, the man's seen a place of safety within him when in reality, there's nothing there at all.
But Jean Louis wants the illusion of it.
He finds lube and condoms after a few seconds, weighing them in his hand briefly. Claude wants to be fucked and certainly, he's happy to oblige - his cock, in particular, is getting a bit ahead of itself, more than half-way hard and straining against the silk of his bottoms. But another part of him, one that never fails to think no matter how high his arousal goes, keeps remembering the wetness in Claude's voice, the pain. It doesn't frighten him, of course, pain never has. But it makes him alert.
Pay attention. ]
Roll over.
[ He straightens, facing the bed and Claude who looks a little small against it all of a sudden. Yes, he'd be easy to break, particularly now that someone else has already fractured his foundation - then again, such fractures can be filled and depending on how you do it, they can be strengthened beyond their original capabilities, too. Depending on how. He steps closer, keeping his bottoms on for now and waits for Claude to lie down and get properly comfortable. He unscrews the lid on the lube, tossing it backwards without looking, straight into the open washbag.
Perfect aim in all things, thank you. ]
no subject
It makes his breath catch in his throat, not like a surprise, but like a gift, regardless. He thinks he knows the other man well enough at this point, this is what he'd have expected, if Claude expected anything of individuals. He saves his expectations for the systems, the structures, the intricate patterns that make the world go around the way it does, the non-satisfactory way it insists on.
The mental image of Jean Louis, standing there, looking at him, is practically making his balls tighten and he shifts slightly to make more room for his cock, feeling throbbing and hot against his belly at this point. The last time anyone took him anally, he was 18 and his mom had contacted Rainier without his knowledge, threatening him with police and Rainier hadn't said anything about it either when they met for their usual Wednesday fuck at his teacher's house, just pushed him over the dining room table, flipped him around and fucked him hard, trousers around his ankles. Only afterwards, he'd said: I was certain you were too old to run to Maman, Claude. Disappointing.
When he'd gotten home, his ass smarting and his gait a little stiff, his mom had freaked on him for two consecutive hours.
It had been the last time. And the last day of their relationship.
Like this is the first time and maybe, in a way, the first day. He folds his arms beneath his head, turning his face to the side to glance over at Jean Louis, waiting for him to join him on the bed again. He's too far away, like this, even as he steps up to the side of the bed. Too much distance. When Claude wants close and closer and in. ]
Got experience in ordering people around, don't you?
[ It's said with a smile, content. It also just means, got experience? In all of it, making people roll over and fucking them. ]
no subject
Some.
[ Concerning both the spoken question and the underlying one - he's got experience enough, he'd say, for the two of them. It's not even a matter of experience, really, experience has become a secondary gain from an inherent necessity. From he was very young taking leadership has simply been a given (if not him, then no one) and fortunately, it comes naturally to him. In bed and out of bed. He joins Claude on the bed, lying down on his side once more, stretching out next to him and entwining their feet. His own are slightly cool from the floorboards and Claude, on the other hand, is warm from the duvet and the bed and from crawling into Jean Louis' space. They go together perfectly like that.
As he lies down on his elbow, their faces are inches away. He runs his fingers across Claude's cheek, jawline. Tilts his head upwards slightly by the chin and kisses him, his breathing slow and even against the other man's lips. He spreads his other hand over the small of Claude's back, brushing over the skin there before pushing his fingers beneath the hem of his briefs and running the full width of his palm down his left buttock. He massages him slowly, fingertips slipping slightly into the cleft of his arse, brushing over his arsehole briefly, feather-light. He's burning hot there, a little damp from sweat, and his cock jerks against his thigh, not just eager but fucking impatient.
He ignores it and slips his tongue past Claude's lips, taking his mouth instead, keeping his hand still against his arse briefly before switching to the other side.
It doesn't bother him, going slow. He's gone at every pace imaginable when it comes to anal sex - both ways, across genders. His first time was early, earlier perhaps than most, and it just means that he knows how it works, how it doesn't work, and that Claude might want to be fucked but perhaps beneath it all, what he wants to be is cherished.
And whilst anal sex can be many things, if it's about the latter there's really only one way to go.
With care. ]
no subject
Meanwhile, his hand has sought beneath the hem of Claude's briefs, Claude's cock jerking enthusiastically in its entrapment. Oh. He wonders what he's been bereft, all these years, what Rainier took from him, by taking it first and not giving it back. He breathes in deeply, shakily when Jean Louis' fingers slip into the cleft of his ass, fingertips brushing over his asshole gently, just a short time, enough to remind him where he wants to go, where Claude wants him to go, too, but not long enough to force entry or even put any expectations on him, physically. It's just Claude's want right now, Claude's cock throbbing and getting wet at the tip - those things dictate for now. Maybe they'll be allowed to dictate the whole way.
Which means, Jean Louis might be used to having control, but for now - he's giving control back to Claude.
So, when the other man fills his mouth with his tongue, licking into him, taking that hole rather than the other, Claude moans, a muffled, low sound, as is necessary because - Céline next door, right, the arm closest to him coming up, five fingers running through Jean Louis' hair, stroking it backwards, into the hairstyle he prefers.
It's about that as well. He wants them both to want this, in this way. He wants them to merge in more than body, more than cock in ass, more than limb in hole.
Arching his back when Jean Louis repeats the motion, massaging his buttock, then slipping his fingers down his cleft, no pressure, just presence, Claude pushes his ass up into his grasp, wordlessly asking for more and please and oh, although he doesn't stop kissing the other man back either. Like, he can be greedy, he can want to be filled in all empty parts of him at once.
Nothing wrong with that. He was brought up liberal, he knows. ]
no subject
He breaks the kiss, panting slightly, nearly soundlessly. Looking at Claude, his hand curved over his other buttock, he finally untangles his hand from within his briefs and pulls at the hem, nudging them down over his hips, giving Claude time to work with him, to adjust himself and his hard cock accordingly. The briefs slide down his thighs and Jean Louis gets on his knees to work them off the rest of the way. Dropping them on the floor by the bed, he turns back to the other man, looking over the long, soft lines of his legs, thighs, arse - and upwards, all the way to his shoulders and his curls and the beautiful lines of his face. Treasure, he'd called him earlier in the evening. Like this, it's blatantly obvious.
Breathing coming out a bit shaky on his next exhalation, he shifts onto his side once more, lies down next to Claude but keeps himself propped up on his elbow for balance. With the other hand, he picks up the lube and squeezes some onto his palm, rubbing his fingers together briefly to warm it. ]
Shame that you can't be loud.
[ He leans down, kissing the back of Claude's head, lips slipping into his hair. ]
Let me know if I'm doing something wrong.
[ With that, he runs two, slick fingers down the crack of Claude's arse, pressing his fingertips in along the soft skin there, from right beneath his tailbone to his opening and a few inches beneath it, too. He draws his fingers upwards again, pausing over the rim of his arsehole this time and pressing inwards very slightly, not really enough to penetrate. He feels the tightness of him, the heat. His breath trembles out of him and he shifts, the tension in his balls quite hard to ignore at this point.
Leaning down, he pushes his lips against the back of Claude's neck with just enough pressure to signal down, and it isn't really an order - rather, it's a recommendation, perhaps, or guidance because seconds later, he presses the full length of his index finger into him, feeling his arsehole stretching easily around it. He sinks in all the way to the last knuckle, slowly, mindful of any resistance. ]
no subject
That's good enough. That's perfect.
Let me know if I'm doing anything wrong, he says and Claude smiles, mutters sure, before the other man trails two lube-slick fingers down from his tailbone to over his asshole, to just below it. Giving him the sensation of that whole -- area existing, very much alive and kicking, apparently. He wants to tell Jean Louis that he can be loud enough, definitely, but then the other man leans down and kisses the back of his neck, applying the whole breadth of his torso to tell him, down and stay, probably, then pushing his whole fucking index finger into him, one long, insistent stretch and Claude's ass giving easily, opening and there's that feeling, of being open again, of being vulnerable, of giving, and he croaks out something before remembering himself, biting his lower lip and feeling the muscles in his thighs tighten, releasing, tighten on repeat while his hips lie still only because he wills them to. Down, right? Down. He stays down, taking it, Jean Louis' finger, feeling receptive and willing against him, against the feel of his knuckles, his hand pressing against his buttocks.
Claude is panting now, pressing his forehead down against his bent arm, everything on him feeling tight and wanting, wanting so much. More. More.
There's a brief moment where he remembers his first time with Rainier, like this, too, fingers in his ass, scissoring him open, then it's gone and it doesn't matter. What he liked then and what he likes now -- well, they're two different Claudes with different preferences. He wanted Rainier once and then he stopped wanting him. Now he wants Jean Louis and that hasn't stopped. That's what he knows. That, and the feeling of being full, of being open to him.
His voice sounds hoarse and a little bit lighter with air than usually when he speaks, turning his head and looking sideways at Jean Louis. ]
Fuck, I'd forgotten that feeling of opening up to -- [ Pant, pant. ] -- someone else. [ Forehead back to pressing against his arm. He forces himself to relax, his asshole tangibly loosening, then tightening slightly again, then loosening, opening up. ] God, you feel good.
no subject
It'll feel better.
[ It's a fact, not a promise. Again, he doesn't care for the latter; it reeks of uncertainty, of illusions - a trick that relies too heavily on the whims and wills of the person who makes the offering. Promises are, as they say, cheap. They mean nothing (and he knows nothing, perhaps better than many). He kisses a path from Claude's nape to his shoulder before flattening his tongue against his skin, tasting him fully. Salt and something a little warmer, something complex.
He pulls his finger out of Claude's arse, nearly all the way and adds his middle finger next to it, probing his arsehole for a few seconds just to give him a signal before pushing in. He works both fingers in deep once more, past the tightness of his rim. He's all soft walls and heat on the inside as he buries his fingers to the last knuckles and pulls out only partially before going back inside. He takes care to get his prostate on every outstroke, too - if the other man isn't leaking onto the bed already, he definitely will be now.
A lovely mental image. His cock twitches pitifully but it'll have to wait - the more he wants it, the better. Maybe some other time, they can fuck for an hour, if Claude wants, if he doesn't mind that raw feeling that comes after, the reminder every single time you try to sit. To Jean Louis, it depends. That's how he knows it's not tonight. ]
no subject
Warning him with a slight probe of two fingers, Claude relaxes and lets him, lets him inside, two fingers at once, pushing into him to the knuckles in a firm, easy, smooth slide and Claude is panting hard now, face pressed sideways into the mattress, staring at nothing but the shadows around them, curls falling into his eyes. Oh, fuck. It's so good. How could he forget how good this part is, the outstroke, prostate... ]
Fuck, Jean Louis -- [ He makes a very restrained whining sound as the other man withdraws his fingers halfway, then back in, repeat, something that could be rhythm, but is definitely pressure and fullness. Shit. He shifts again, his balls tight and almost hurting from it. From want. ] If it gets much better, I'm gonna come, fucking hell.
[ Spreading his legs invitingly, the muscles of his thighs tight and trembling, Claude presses his forehead into the mattress and tries not to be loud, Céline won't ever stop letting him hear for it, if he wakes her up while fucking, but he's almost on the verge of not caring. Not caring about his sisters or his mother or his party or his politics, his principles, any of it. He just wants Jean Louis fucking inside him, he wants to feel him there, where he's been empty for so long, been empty since everything ended and nothing began.
Something is beginning, tonight. In the future, they're gonna fuck in dark alleys and for hours on Saturday mornings. He... He wants them to have that kind of relationship.
He wants them to have a relationship, full stop. They need to verbalize that, probably, later, when he's come and Jean Louis has come with him and they're one again. He needs the other man to know, he wants them to be together, going forward. He wants them to be together, future tense. He wants them to be together, repeatedly. Until he can't fucking walk anymore.
He wants... Easing up on his knees a little bit, giving himself room but at the same time, pushing his ass well and truly up against the other man's fingers, meeting them, chasing the stroke, the slide, the push against prostate himself, Claude reaches underneath himself and closes his fingers around his cock, near the base, starving off his arousal a bit, just reigning himself in.
Hoarsely, ]
Give me a second. I want to come on your cock.
no subject
Won't do, of course.
He nods against Claude's shoulder and pulls both fingers out carefully, rubbing the tips over his rim a few times, feeling the muscle twitch in response. Then, he rolls onto his side and twists out of his pajama bottoms, pushing them to the floor with his feet. His cock's hard against his stomach and wet at the tip. Quickly, he unwraps the condom and rolls it on, not too much finesse, before he coats his palm in lube once more and slicks himself up. Turning onto his hip, one hand holding the condom in place, he looks at Claude for a moment before leaning down, kissing a wet trail from the small of his back and up the length of his spine. He follows his own path all the way to Claude's neck and shifts onto his knees, positioning himself above the other man, one leg on either side of his body.
Like that, slowly, he lowers himself until his front is pressed against Claude's back. He takes a firm grip on himself and guides his cock along the crack of Claude's arse, finding his arsehole easily now that he's spent the past minutes fingering it open. He presses the head of his cock against it without pushing in, feeling the rim stretch and give, opening around him. He breathes roughly, his pulse quickening - in a moment, in a moment - ]
Tell me again.
[ And the unspoken echoes underneath: That you want it. What you want. Tell me. Say it out loud. His voice is a hoarse whisper against the side of Claude's head, lips brushing against his ear. ]
no subject
Making an dissatisfied sound as the other man's fingers finally slip out completely, shifting and holding himself off, Claude eases up on his knees a bit more as Jean Louis goes about the practicalities, condom, lube, making everything ready for easy interlocking, right, if you wanna be really grossly mechanical about it. He wants Jean Louis all the way inside, he wants to feel the full length of him, hard and throbbing, inside his ass, he wants him to sit there a long moment, filling him out, and then Claude wants him to fuck him until everything that cracked before is filled, too. It's actually a pretty easy thing. You'd think. But it's taken so long to get here. And so many people, it's taken as well.
When Jean Louis is ready, he doesn't speed up, he doesn't force himself, instead kissing a wet trail up Claude's spine, making everything tingle, his asshole contracting a few times at the feeling. Once he gets as far as Claude's nape, the low dip of his neck there, he positions himself over him, making Claude's balls draw up almost painfully and he tightens his grip on himself, face still pressed into the mattress and it's good like this, it's close, it's safe. He is panting hard, feeling the other man trace his cock over his gaping asshole, thinking it'll fit, that they can fit like that.
Leaning in over him, so he's got his whole weight in over his backside and it's almost overwhelming, there's a brief moment where he remembers the dining room table and Rainier, breathing heavily against him, but then it's gone, like it's been magically disspelled and there's only Jean Louis' voice, tell me again, and the hoarse whisper of his exhalations against the side of Claude's face. He whimpers, literally whimpers, shifting, shifting, pushing back, desperate for it. ]
I want to feel your cock, I want you to make me come from it.
no subject
Fuck, you feel -
[ He swallows his next words, everything in his body telling him to move, to get that sense of friction, of thrust. He breathes hard against the side of Claude's neck and pulls out halfway before thrusting back inside. ]
- ah - you feel good. Perfect.
[ He folds his left arm around Claude's front, over chest and collarbones, taking the pressure off his bad shoulder and pulling Claude just a bit upwards, up against his own chest and closer. He's not being harsh about it - after all, the human body isn't a fucking noodle, it doesn't just stretch in any and all directions - but insistent, all the same. Come here, it means. He starts fucking him slowly, keeping the rhythm deep rather than hurried, the bed creaking beneath them. The heat in his belly doubles and he's breathing harshly, working himself in and out, his pace even.
He can feel his own climax building, his balls tight and drawn. Shifting, he angles himself in an approximation of his fingers, earlier, going for Claude's prostate and expecting to get it. As Claude said, he has experience. And experience is only worth as many benefits as it reaps. ]
no subject
He's also just very fucking horny.
When Jean Louis folds his arm around his chest and heaves him up, it takes all Claude's fucking willpower not to come on the spot, his fingers tightening around his hard, throbbing cock, holding himself back, forcing himself to hold, stay, come here, Jean Louis says to finish it all off and he supports himself on his other arm, elbow digging into the mattress and his whole back arching sharply, feeling every thrust of Jean Louis' hips into the bones of him.
The pace is even and unhurried and Claude basically wants to scream, moaning loudly at this point when Jean Louis aims for his prostate and gets it just right, his cock spurting precum between his fingers. He's panting harshly, not even trying to keep quiet anymore, the bed creaking in time with their movements and his body feeling overheated, throbbing, head to toe. His thigh muscles jerk, almost making him collapse in on himself as Jean Louis hits his prostate. His asshole tightens up harshly, too. ]
Fuck, fuck, do it again, harder... [ A hoarse whimper, his shoulders rolling as he pushes back against the other man's cock, more or less forcing him back inside, over that spot, come here, all right. ] Jean Louis, you feel so fucking hard --
[ Although there are still faint tears streaks on his cheeks, they don't mean anything now, they don't even register. Claude is frowning harshly, eyes closed, his face contorted in pleasure, lips parted, panting, panting hard. ]
no subject
So, as he fucks into Claude, burying deep and pushing them both towards the edge without rushing, just doing what works, he folds his hand sloppily around Claude's mouth and chin, muffling his sounds. He kisses him along the side of his face, his temple and his cheekbone, breathing raggedly. ]
Now, Claude. [ He shifts. Kisses the bridge of Claude's nose. ] Be as loud as you want.
[ He takes a deep breath, angles himself properly and drives into him, hard enough to make the bed shake and the floor whine beneath them. The sudden increase in friction, the power of his thrusts, makes his balls tighten up to the point of pain. He ignores it. It's the edge and they're going over it, not with him dragging Claude like Rainier would have done, he would have pushed him and kicked him towards it and what a boring exercise that must have been. What a boring little man. No, he's not dragging Claude at all, he's running with him and for some reason, the thought of Claude taking his hand and just holding it pops into his mind, front and center; the way he does at seemingly random times throughout the day like it's perfectly normal, like anyone's ever done that before -
He gasps. Buries his head in Claude's shoulder by his neck, open-mouthed, teeth scraping over his shoulder as he spends himself on the next thrust, his climax sweeping over him so violently that he can't breathe for it. ]
no subject
But then, Jean Louis clamps his hand over his mouth, leaning in enough to kiss his face gently, more gently than his hand, whispering against him, be as loud as you want. Meaning, I'll take the rest, I'll deal with it, you don't have to worry. You don't have to worry anymore.
It goes both ways, Claude thinks hazily, his vision blurring at this point, as he starts jerking himself off harshly, chasing his climax with desperate zeal. Right back at you, Jean Louis. But that's all he has time to think, because Jean Louis is building it up like a piece of art, taking him there, taking him beyond and there's a moment when he hits his prostate again, when Claude thinks he might either die or fly and he can't decide which it'll be and both would be fine, right now. Right now, it's all good.
At this point, he's sobbing out words without meaning, basic sounds, fuck, fuck, fuck, and when he feels Jean Louis come, first, in him, inside his body, condom notwithstanding, it rises in pitch to something louder and clearer and yet, Jean Louis' hand takes most of it, so when he shouts out his own orgasm, a desperate, broken sound that sounds like a victory cry anyway, because it is, he did it and he did it without Rainier, it sounds more like a muffled hmph. Audible, sure, but not alarming. Not alarming.
Dripping cum all over the mattress, Claude eventually - more or less - collapses onto the bed, knees giving out, arm, shoulders slumping, he's breathing hard into Jean Louis' now very wet and overheated palm and he smells like Claude himself, but also like him and Claude is surrounded by him on all sides. Inside and out. His vision is dark around the edges, probably a lack of oxygen, so he wrestles his face free from Jean Louis' hand, which is easily done, it wasn't forced like that, and turns it towards the other man, where he's pressing in against Claude's shoulder. ]
You're -- [ His breathing is still a little too fast, a little too shallow. His voice sounds raw. ] -- precious, Jean Louis. You're invaluable.
[ You're not your riches or your accomplishments, what you are is mine, it means. ]
no subject
Slowly, carefully, he eases himself out of Claude's body, holding onto the condom with his free hand, the one that's got the imprints of Claude's breath and his cries and his bravery all over it. Rolling it off, tying it and trowing away takes seconds, seconds that he barely even notices - then, his breathing slow and heavy, he lies down next to Claude, up against his side, nudging Claude until he lies on his side with his back to him. Like that, he curls up around him, twists their legs together and pushes his face into his hair. You're precious, says Claude, pretty words that shouldn't mean anything to him. He's been many things in his life to many people; precious isn't one of them.
Invaluable, he says.
He takes a deep breath. Locks his arm around Claude's waist and reaches for the duvet blindly, managing to wrangle it from beneath them to throw it over Claude, first, himself second. He doesn't like to be covered completely when he sleeps, it makes him feel locked down.
Yes, he's been locked down (and thrown away) many times and logically, that's really not what you do to something precious or invaluable but Claude's not the type to lie so maybe he knows something else about the world, the strange world he inhabits. The rules are different there. It takes something he doesn't know about to live in it.
For now, he'll accept that as truth. ]