[ 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
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. ]