[ He hears it. He hears it in the way Jean Louis' breath trembles out of him, how much he likes the concept, the idea of it, how much he wants it. And because men are raised to take what they want, also in a way women aren't, maybe Claude would have expected something like, what are you waiting for, do it or similar variations over the same theme. He'd have expected enthusiastic -- maybe not even consent, just a plain command. But because Jean Louis isn't Rainier, because Jean Louis is unlike all men that Claude has met, and he's met his share, that isn't what happens. What happens is as following: Jean Louis looks up at him, their uneven (unequal) positions of height right now apparent between them, and he says... He says...
This time it's Claude's breath, stumbling from him and his cock, jerking against his abdomen, so he has to reach down and steady it, just a thumb beneath the shaft, squeeze, stay, behave. Breathless and hit by an acute surge of arousal, Claude meets Jean Louis' eyes and smiles, softly, slowly leveling himself down onto his level again, though he stays on his knees, he'll need the support in a moment. He'll need the support when he's going to suck him off within a fucking inch of his life, which is very much what he'd like to do right now. Supporting himself with a hand next to the other man's shoulder, he leans in and presses his lips softly to first Jean Louis' forehead, right above his brow, then the corner of his mouth. ]
It's not about having to, it's about wanting to. I've wanted to taste you properly for a while.
[ And, while he gently presses his free hand to the middle of Jean Louis' chest, urging him to roll onto his back completely, because the non-question he asked had a question mark at the tail end of it, sure, but also an unmistakable sense of yes and please and fuck, he leans in over him, his torse like a weight, like a blanket, a shadow over his olive skin, kissing his way down along the side of his neck, soft pressure of his lips, wet, puffs of air. Claude can feel him like that. Close.
His heart is racing. He hasn't sucked cock without a condom since Rainier. And he doesn't want Rainier's taste to be the last that clung to his tastebuds. He doesn't want Rainier to be the last man that came in his mouth, that he swallowed.
Because, shit, he always loved sucking cock. And he wants to love sucking Jean Louis' even more than he already has loved it, does love it.
His own cock's throbbing at the thought.
Moving down along the slope of Jean Louis' chest at a slow pace, he halts briefly by his right nipple, sucking it in between his lips, rubbing the whole length of his tongue, wet and warm, over it, feeling it tighten, harden, like other things. ]
[ Claude proceeds to... lean in close once more and kiss him, but not in any way that makes sense (as in, on the mouth, tongue first). Instead, he kisses him so softly that it makes him blink, several times in a row, staring at the contours of the other man's face. Forehead. The corner of his mouth. Just that soft press of his lips and the heat of him. For a long moment, he can't even think about how aroused he is, about the promise of Claude's mouth around his naked cock; instead, this strange adventure of Claude's lips, finding their own little key spots on his face, goes into the mental pile of I don't know what this is but I want it, along with the pink teddy bear Claude gave away to the tiny girl and the way he entangles their fingers, even when they're both cold and the heat barely transfers as a byproduct.
Senseless, ridiculous things.
Wordlessly, he follows along as Claude urges him onto his back. Lying down, he shifts a little against the mattress, feeling the grounding solidity of the bed - the frame, firm against the floor and the floor, too, firm as the building and the walls around them. He leans his head back for a moment as Claude moves above him, before he realises that it feels wrong (too much, too naked) to lie on his back without being able to see him. He raises himself slightly onto his elbows instead, looking down as Claude licks his way down his chest, tonguing one nipple and making his skin prickle from the feel of it.
Eyes narrowing as he watches, Jean Louis curls his right hand against the back of Claude's head, running his fingers slowly through his hair. He doesn't urge him downwards or pull at him, not while he's still got enough blood left in his head to think. Claude, he thinks, must have a plan. Something he wants, something he'd like.
It's an easy thing, then, to simply follow along. ]
[ The way Jean Louis lies down at first, on his back, head back, letting him, just taking what Claude is giving is one of the hottest things Claude has ever had, like a complete sense of trust, I give myself to you, which is something from a man who gives nothing of himself to anyone. Of course, it lasts seconds, then Jean Louis works himself onto his elbows to see, to watch Claude lick his way downwards and Claude will give him that, too, will give him anything that makes him feel comfortable or safe.
Himself, he huffs out a breath against Jean Louis' skin, shifting over to his other nipple, same procedure, lots of tongue, but he doesn't linger, because he knows they're both goal-oriented, in general, yeah, but here especially. Now. Kissing his way down over his midriff (firm, hard, Jean Louis works out in a multitude of ways, he's all muscle), then abdomen (more, muscle, hardness, tightening beneath his lips) and he can smell him from here, the stark scent of cock and sweat and the slight sting of salt. Precum. Claude shifts on his knees helplessly, trying to make his cock stop hurting from want. To make it behave for a moment, he can't... he doesn't have time for it, right now. Priorities.
There are others to consider.
Instead, he shifts down until Jean Louis' hard cock is more or less aligned with his face, his mouth on balls-level and he leans in, wrapping his fingers around the base, opening his mouth and pressing his parted lips wetly, wetly and softly to Jean Louis' shaft, keeping his tongue out of the way, tasting's for later. In a moment, this is just to feel him, feel the outline of veins and the curve of his shaft as he mouths, breathing hard, up along it, to the bulge of the head, the sensitive veins just beneath it. He mouths there, too. All the time, keeping his tongue out of the game.
Until he gets to the head, feeling the slight wetness of the other man coat his lips and he can fucking smell him, his scent thick in his nostrils. Claude's breathing comes out funny and he finally just gives up, sticking out his tongue and pressing it over the tip, just coating Jean Louis in himself, wrapping him up with Claude's own flesh.
And he can taste him. The masculine, slightly salty taste of him, straight in his mouth. He'll suck him in between his lips in a moment, in a moment he'll take him in, but give him this, please. Just for him, no one else. ]
[ Jean Louis watches the entire way - as Claude kisses his way down his front, over his midriff. Further down. Breath catching in his throat, he swallows to clear it, his cock twitching desperately. It doesn't take Claude long at all to get where they both want him to go; it doesn't feel hurried but intentional, just knowing where you want to go and getting there. He likes it. It makes sense. His eyelashes flutter briefly at the feel and visual as Claude starts mouthing against the length of his cock. His lips are so wet, wet and soft, and the closer he gets to the head, the hotter they feel. He spreads his legs a little, just to feel himself balancing against it, with Claude above him and his mouth going up - up... ]
Mm. That's nice.
[ He keeps running his fingers through Claude's curls, his grip tightening a fraction when the other man maps him out with his lips, acting like he's been so hungry for it and still, keeping himself at bay - this is different, though, this is the kind of thing you do when you've got something delicious in front of you and you want to savour it as slowly as you can bear. It's a great look on him if a little... maddening. His breath coming out faster yet, Jean Louis forces himself not to move as Claude begins licking the tip of his cock. The stimulation is crazy, however, pointed and isolated and enough that he wants so badly to squirm that he almost can't stand it. His cock leaks precum beneath Claude's tongue.
Instead, he curls his other hand against the sheet so hard that his lower arm trembles from it, his bad little finger aching enough to provide at least a small contrast. The sting sharpens his focus and he tilts his head a little to the side, watching Claude enjoy himself. His breathing evens out slightly.
[ The other man spreads his legs to accommodate, to meet him as he takes his time mapping out his cock with his mouth, just feeling how heavy he is, how warm and big. Claude breathes hard through his nose, feeling the way Jean Louis is leaking precum onto his tongue, but more importantly - he's tasting it. Tasting that sharp, intense essence of him, everything Jean Louis is, boiled down to those droplets. He almost can't think for it, his mind feeling slightly hazy from want as he glances up, noticing how the other man is clinging to the sheets already, his lower arm trembling, the little finger with its missing nail twitching in protest.
And so, Claude pulls back, lips coated in his scent, in his taste, and grabs onto the base of Jean Louis' cock with his right hand while he, with his left, strokes his thigh, the hard muscle of it, soft skin, hairs, coarse. All of him. Claude wants all of him. Looking up and catching the other man's hard gaze for a moment, he deliberately leans in and opens, wide, Jean Louis isn't exactly small, sticking out his tongue halfway and catching the head of his cock on it, feeling the weight against his own body, and he slides him in between his lips, he holds him there, tightened his lips slightly around the girth of just the head, tongue pressing up against the spot right underneath that he knows Jean Louis likes, it's sensitive, he'll feel it.
He'll feel him, the wetness and the heat and the way everything fits, this deep cavity in his body, made for this. Well, for eating, let's be real, but Claude is eating now, too. He's devouring. He's sating himself.
Groaning deep in his chest, he starts sucking Jean Louis' cock in inch by inch until the head starts pressing against the back of his mouth and he can't take him any further. He never learned how to deepthroat. He did it sometimes, before, but he never learned the skill. He was just made to do it. This is as far as he can take him at the moment and it's fine, he's drooling all over his shaft and the rest, his hand can take care of. Jerking off the base of him slowly with his free hand, Claude starts drawing back, feels his mouth emptying, then filling again as he sinks right back down, meeting his thumb and his index finger, curled around Jean Louis' girth on the way.
It's such a soothing rhythm. It fits the way he's stroking Jean Louis' thigh with his other hand, thumb brushing over his skin, drawing patterns. ]
[ Claude pulls back only briefly but the small pause, that sudden absence of touch, makes him shudder involuntarily. It's not just need at this point, the heat in his belly - it's urge, harsh and rather unforgiving, and his hand tightens in the sheets again, harder yet, in lieu of tightening in Claude's hair. He watches as the other man catches his gaze deliberately, his own narrowing to slits as Claude leans in and opens his mouth, wide, oh, and he looks so wet like this, his mouth is all pink and glistening - ]
Ah! [ And hoarser: ] Fuck.
[ His thigh muscles tense up beneath Claude's hand, the way he strokes his skin oddly soothing, like there's anything to soothe right now, what a ridiculous thought - but he likes it, regardless. Some odd, hidden and unknowable part of him likes it. The fact that he's even noticing speaks volumes, considering the fact that Claude's taking him into his mouth. Breathing roughly, shifting just enough on his buttocks to re-direct some of the tension building up within him at the feel of it, he stares at Claude's mouth, at the round 'o' of his lips, and his cock lodged between them. It's a tight fit. Snug.
Fuck, this is how any man would want to die.
The other man takes him in all the way to the back of his mouth and though he could easily push in the rest of the way, force his way down, he stays perfectly still, simply letting Claude set the pace, saliva running down the length of his shaft and pooling over his balls. When he starts jerking him off, though, he can't quite hold back - neither the moan from deep within his throat or the slight, slight thrust of his hips upwards. Luckily, Claude's begun to draw back at this point and he only ends up thrusting along his tongue, briefly, before he stops himself.
Then, Claude sinks back down.
He realises only then that he's actively gripping Claude's hair now between his fingers, hard enough to pull. He relaxes his grip quickly, his mind somehow anchoring itself to the feel of Claude's hand against his thigh, the gentle patterns of his fingers. Breathe. He does so, slowly, and as he exhales, the pleasure seemingly doubles. Fuck. Fuck, that's crazy. Claude's mouth is so warm and tight and he feels like he's melting into him, mind and essence and whatever's left after that.
Nothing. There's nothing left he won't want to put into him. ]
[ It's the little things. It's how Jean Louis moans, ah and fuck, voice hoarse and his body tense from arousal, tense all the way out into his fingers, gripping the sheets and anchoring himself in the surge of it. Claude wants him to relax into it, he wants the other man to give himself over, but not because Claude is telling him to (then again, you try to tell Jean Louis to do anything, good luck), but because Claude is showing him how. And because Jean Louis trusts him enough to mimic.
The thought along with Jean Louis' response, the tight hold in his hair, firm, hard, makes him groan around his mouthful, though he doesn't fasten his pace, just keeps going slow, steady, even, a rhythm but a patient one. They're chasing the long haul, here, they're not short-sighted enough, either of them, to do anything else. Right?
Pushing Jean Louis' cock in as far as it'll go without him actively taking him down his throat, even pressing a little extra against his uvula out of eagerness and he has to suppress a cough, it's pure want, okay, Claude starts bobbing his head up and down, deep takes every time, sliding him all the way in, then halfway out, then back. His head is full of him, his scent, taste, the girth of his cock, the weight on his tongue, there's so much Jean Louis in him, he can't fit any more in there. He'd lose himself in the process, if so. Claude slips the hand currently jerking him off down to Jean Louis' balls, cupping them briefly, just feeling how tight they are, rolling them gently between his fingers, his other hand keeping up the stroking of the other man's thigh, the soothing caresses. A part of him would like to touch himself, his own cock is leaking from desperation at this point, but another part, old and rooted, painfully, reminds him that he shouldn't, that he should wait, wait for... wait for...
For what? Fuck that, he doesn't have time for either the question or the answers right now.
He moans loudly, shifting on his knees a couple of times and then starts upping the pace a little, fingering Jean Louis' balls softly, knowing he's sensitive, knowing he'll feel him and that he'll want to. Everywhere.
Knowing he has him. He holds him, like this. Swallowing hard, feeling his whole mouth tighten, lips closing tight around the shaft of Jean Louis' cock as he drags himself off of him all the way to the head, only stopping right before he's popping him out of his mouth. Then, Claude sucks. Soft, rolling, wet motions of spit and his cheeks hollowing, creating that sense of tightness, of floating away.
If Jean Louis is being brave enough to letting himself be held, Claude wants it to be a warm grasp, understanding, loving. ]
[ Claude... keeps going. He's basically just holding on at this point. Trying desperately to keep his breathing at least somewhat even, Jean Louis loses that particular fight somewhere between Claude beginning to bob his head up and down (shit, rhythm, oh, shit) and him, cupping his balls and rolling them between his fingers. He's ridiculously sensitive in any and all possible places and Claude's treating him with just the right kind of carefulness, the kind that he couldn't describe to anyone if they'd asked. It's fortunate, really, that Claude never has. He just understands, it seems, and Jean Louis still isn't certain how that works, only that it does. Fuck, does it work.
When Claude moans and shifts, it takes his pleasure-addled brain a few seconds to realise that he isn't touching himself at all - he's using both his hands. Jean Louis cranes his neck a little to see, having to blink to focus enough at this point, and - yes. Claude's cock looks painfully hard, red at the tip, and he licks his lips without thinking, just as Claude gives a particularly good suck.
Gasping, he clears his throat, swallows for good measure and manages in a tone of voice that's nowhere near even or impressive: ]
You - you need to - [ He groans and shifts back on the bed, his left arm trembling from holding himself up. ] - you should touch yourself. Enjoy it with me.
[ He runs his hand through Claude's hair again, slowly now, before cupping the back of his neck. Then, slowly, he leans himself backwards until he can't go any further, back fully against the bed, and allows himself to simply... lay down. Relax. The throbbing in his shoulder immediately fades into the background, the wetness of Claude's mouth around his cock and the added sensation of his fingers against him - thigh, balls - creating the most perfect pace, not too fast, gentle, because Claude is like that.
Consequently, when they're together, so is he.
He leans his head back and closes his eyes, his hips shifting very, very slightly upwards whenever Claude takes him into his mouth, creating that slide, the sense of friction between the other man's lips. His breathing is loud, ragged. ]
[ To no one's surprise, Jean Louis Girard has the stamina of a hundred wild horses, he can keep going, he can fuck for hours, something they've already taken full advantage of in regards to anal, hours in bed in the morning, croissants and coffee afterwards when Claude is sore enough to actually need a pillow to sit on. It's a different reality from being too sore to sit down during class, back in the day. It's the same, but it's different. And the difference matters.
He is more or less twisting beneath Claude's ministrations now, though. The other man's breathing sounds ragged, harsh, exploding out of him and his chest is heaving, shining from sweat, the coarse hairs there catching the droplets and the droplets catching the light, like diamonds. It's beautiful. Claude watches him, keeping the rhythm of his mouth and the accompanying motion of his fingers, fondling him, even, slowly towards the finish line. This is a marathon, not a sprint. This is a gift, not a game.
Shifting himself, because his cock feels actually, physically painful, throbbing like he's got all Jean Louis' arousal in his body besides his own, like he's swallowing that down, too, Claude groans in frustration, fingers curling against Jean Louis' thigh, digging his fingertips in a bit, to feel the other man, since he apparently still can't make himself feel his own fucking body. But because Jean Louis is observant and because Jean Louis considers what he wants to consider, he hears the other man tell him to touch himself, enjoy it with him and Claude hears himself whimper, spreading his knees farther apart for balance and finally, reluctantly withdraws from Jean Louis' thigh, his sweat-slick hand feeling burning against his length as he reaches down, his cock weeping as he starts stroking himself, desperately. Eagerly, without holding back. He needs... he needs to feel... His spit sliding down over the rest of Jean Louis' length, pooling over his balls, slipping in between his buttocks, making everything glisten wetly, Claude stares wide-eyed at everything and anything he can see of the other man right now. His shaft, pushing in and drawing out of his mouth, tongue flat up against the underside, thighs, spread wide, balls, the hint of buttocks, the alluring darkness between them.
Whining hungrily, he releases Jean Louis' balls and catches a drizzle of his own saliva on his fingers before pushing them in between the other man's buttocks, going blind and managing regardless, because he knows the way, he's been here before. Jean Louis likes to get finger-fucked, he likes ass play and with an endless sense of gentleness, Claude finds his asshole with his fingertips, but rather than penetrating, he just rubs the rim wetly, in circular motions, following the natural outline, not forcing, not entering, just stimulating.
All the while, he's jerking himself off faster and faster, his vision blurring at the edges and his whole body tense, the muscles in his back, upper arms, abdomen. He's tight all over. Enjoy it with me, Jean Louis asked.
[ Claude whimpers (whimpers, fuck, what's anyone supposed do at this point?) and Jean Louis hears him shifting slightly, the hand against his thigh disappearing. Then follows the sound of the other man working himself, fast and desperate, matching the growing feeling of nownownow in his own body and the smell of sex intensifies between them, the urgency. Oh. He groans and shifts on his back, thrusting upwards at a pace now, feeling the slick glide of Claude's mouth around him, it's fucking perfect.
Then, Claude takes his hand off his balls and the sense of impending climax dissipates ever so slightly, it's just the difference between touch and no-touch, a minor sensory disruption and though he does squirm very slightly, it's doesn't truly matter, Claude's mouth is definitely getting him there, getting him there fast. He holds onto the back of Claude's neck, fingertips digging into his skin, following the motion of his head as the other man works himself up and down his length.
Just as he closes in on that edge, like he can feel it, Claude presses his fingers in between his buttocks, rubbing the rim of his arsehole and making sparks fly from his lower body and up his spine. Eyes snapping open, he stares up at the ceiling wordlessly, breathlessly. His hand tightens harshly against the back of Claude's neck as he tumbles over that edge, pleasure surging through him. He doesn't even manage to consider the notion that Claude might not want to swallow; he comes in his mouth, filling him up, his hips thrusting upwards, inwards. Moaning, he pushes his head back against the pillow, feeling that restless urge to keep thrusting, deeper and harder, to make himself empty, but this, at least, he manages to control; instead, he sinks down against the bed, his muscles shaking.
[ It's beautiful, the way it happens. The way Jean Louis is gripping his head, the back of it, holding on, clinging, and the way he shifts and breathes and moans when Claude pushes his fingertips against his asshole, the way his cock fills and throbs on his tongue when he gives himself over, arching slightly against the bed, hips working, pushing, pushing and it's beautiful. It's really fucking beautiful.
And then, Jean Louis comes in his mouth, he didn't ask, but there's no need, Claude takes it, he swallows it down, he hasn't tasted cum in ages, he was wondering whether he'd still like it, the way he loved it back then, but he hadn't needed to worry, he fucking loves it, the whole experience, all sensory inputs at once, the feeling of Jean Louis hardening as he forces himself inside of him again and again, the sounds of him, moaning for it, and the feeling, everything tensing and his asshole twitching and the sweat of his inner thighs, it's all beautiful.
On top of that, add the sounds of Claude's own hand, jerking him off hard now, desperately drawing it out of himself. One moment he's swallowing, the next Jean Louis is empty and Claude pops his cock out of his mouth, staring unseeingly ahead, pressing his brow in against the other man's hipbone, feeling the hard curve of it, and he jerks himself off until he's following right along, coming all over the sheets, gasping, whining for it and having the taste of the other man slicking up the back of his tongue.
It's beautiful. This thing they share, whatever it is, whatever it's going to be, it's beautiful.
He gasps against Jean Louis' skin, kissing him, whatever he can reach, feeling his own climax dying down slowly and wanting nothing more than to snuggle up to him, feel his arm around his shoulders, around his body. Being held.
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no subject
This time it's Claude's breath, stumbling from him and his cock, jerking against his abdomen, so he has to reach down and steady it, just a thumb beneath the shaft, squeeze, stay, behave. Breathless and hit by an acute surge of arousal, Claude meets Jean Louis' eyes and smiles, softly, slowly leveling himself down onto his level again, though he stays on his knees, he'll need the support in a moment. He'll need the support when he's going to suck him off within a fucking inch of his life, which is very much what he'd like to do right now. Supporting himself with a hand next to the other man's shoulder, he leans in and presses his lips softly to first Jean Louis' forehead, right above his brow, then the corner of his mouth. ]
It's not about having to, it's about wanting to. I've wanted to taste you properly for a while.
[ And, while he gently presses his free hand to the middle of Jean Louis' chest, urging him to roll onto his back completely, because the non-question he asked had a question mark at the tail end of it, sure, but also an unmistakable sense of yes and please and fuck, he leans in over him, his torse like a weight, like a blanket, a shadow over his olive skin, kissing his way down along the side of his neck, soft pressure of his lips, wet, puffs of air. Claude can feel him like that. Close.
His heart is racing. He hasn't sucked cock without a condom since Rainier. And he doesn't want Rainier's taste to be the last that clung to his tastebuds. He doesn't want Rainier to be the last man that came in his mouth, that he swallowed.
Because, shit, he always loved sucking cock. And he wants to love sucking Jean Louis' even more than he already has loved it, does love it.
His own cock's throbbing at the thought.
Moving down along the slope of Jean Louis' chest at a slow pace, he halts briefly by his right nipple, sucking it in between his lips, rubbing the whole length of his tongue, wet and warm, over it, feeling it tighten, harden, like other things. ]
no subject
Senseless, ridiculous things.
Wordlessly, he follows along as Claude urges him onto his back. Lying down, he shifts a little against the mattress, feeling the grounding solidity of the bed - the frame, firm against the floor and the floor, too, firm as the building and the walls around them. He leans his head back for a moment as Claude moves above him, before he realises that it feels wrong (too much, too naked) to lie on his back without being able to see him. He raises himself slightly onto his elbows instead, looking down as Claude licks his way down his chest, tonguing one nipple and making his skin prickle from the feel of it.
Eyes narrowing as he watches, Jean Louis curls his right hand against the back of Claude's head, running his fingers slowly through his hair. He doesn't urge him downwards or pull at him, not while he's still got enough blood left in his head to think. Claude, he thinks, must have a plan. Something he wants, something he'd like.
It's an easy thing, then, to simply follow along. ]
no subject
Himself, he huffs out a breath against Jean Louis' skin, shifting over to his other nipple, same procedure, lots of tongue, but he doesn't linger, because he knows they're both goal-oriented, in general, yeah, but here especially. Now. Kissing his way down over his midriff (firm, hard, Jean Louis works out in a multitude of ways, he's all muscle), then abdomen (more, muscle, hardness, tightening beneath his lips) and he can smell him from here, the stark scent of cock and sweat and the slight sting of salt. Precum. Claude shifts on his knees helplessly, trying to make his cock stop hurting from want. To make it behave for a moment, he can't... he doesn't have time for it, right now. Priorities.
There are others to consider.
Instead, he shifts down until Jean Louis' hard cock is more or less aligned with his face, his mouth on balls-level and he leans in, wrapping his fingers around the base, opening his mouth and pressing his parted lips wetly, wetly and softly to Jean Louis' shaft, keeping his tongue out of the way, tasting's for later. In a moment, this is just to feel him, feel the outline of veins and the curve of his shaft as he mouths, breathing hard, up along it, to the bulge of the head, the sensitive veins just beneath it. He mouths there, too. All the time, keeping his tongue out of the game.
Until he gets to the head, feeling the slight wetness of the other man coat his lips and he can fucking smell him, his scent thick in his nostrils. Claude's breathing comes out funny and he finally just gives up, sticking out his tongue and pressing it over the tip, just coating Jean Louis in himself, wrapping him up with Claude's own flesh.
And he can taste him. The masculine, slightly salty taste of him, straight in his mouth. He'll suck him in between his lips in a moment, in a moment he'll take him in, but give him this, please. Just for him, no one else. ]
no subject
Mm. That's nice.
[ He keeps running his fingers through Claude's curls, his grip tightening a fraction when the other man maps him out with his lips, acting like he's been so hungry for it and still, keeping himself at bay - this is different, though, this is the kind of thing you do when you've got something delicious in front of you and you want to savour it as slowly as you can bear. It's a great look on him if a little... maddening. His breath coming out faster yet, Jean Louis forces himself not to move as Claude begins licking the tip of his cock. The stimulation is crazy, however, pointed and isolated and enough that he wants so badly to squirm that he almost can't stand it. His cock leaks precum beneath Claude's tongue.
Instead, he curls his other hand against the sheet so hard that his lower arm trembles from it, his bad little finger aching enough to provide at least a small contrast. The sting sharpens his focus and he tilts his head a little to the side, watching Claude enjoy himself. His breathing evens out slightly.
Truly a great look on him, yes. ]
no subject
And so, Claude pulls back, lips coated in his scent, in his taste, and grabs onto the base of Jean Louis' cock with his right hand while he, with his left, strokes his thigh, the hard muscle of it, soft skin, hairs, coarse. All of him. Claude wants all of him. Looking up and catching the other man's hard gaze for a moment, he deliberately leans in and opens, wide, Jean Louis isn't exactly small, sticking out his tongue halfway and catching the head of his cock on it, feeling the weight against his own body, and he slides him in between his lips, he holds him there, tightened his lips slightly around the girth of just the head, tongue pressing up against the spot right underneath that he knows Jean Louis likes, it's sensitive, he'll feel it.
He'll feel him, the wetness and the heat and the way everything fits, this deep cavity in his body, made for this. Well, for eating, let's be real, but Claude is eating now, too. He's devouring. He's sating himself.
Groaning deep in his chest, he starts sucking Jean Louis' cock in inch by inch until the head starts pressing against the back of his mouth and he can't take him any further. He never learned how to deepthroat. He did it sometimes, before, but he never learned the skill. He was just made to do it. This is as far as he can take him at the moment and it's fine, he's drooling all over his shaft and the rest, his hand can take care of. Jerking off the base of him slowly with his free hand, Claude starts drawing back, feels his mouth emptying, then filling again as he sinks right back down, meeting his thumb and his index finger, curled around Jean Louis' girth on the way.
It's such a soothing rhythm. It fits the way he's stroking Jean Louis' thigh with his other hand, thumb brushing over his skin, drawing patterns. ]
no subject
Ah! [ And hoarser: ] Fuck.
[ His thigh muscles tense up beneath Claude's hand, the way he strokes his skin oddly soothing, like there's anything to soothe right now, what a ridiculous thought - but he likes it, regardless. Some odd, hidden and unknowable part of him likes it. The fact that he's even noticing speaks volumes, considering the fact that Claude's taking him into his mouth. Breathing roughly, shifting just enough on his buttocks to re-direct some of the tension building up within him at the feel of it, he stares at Claude's mouth, at the round 'o' of his lips, and his cock lodged between them. It's a tight fit. Snug.
Fuck, this is how any man would want to die.
The other man takes him in all the way to the back of his mouth and though he could easily push in the rest of the way, force his way down, he stays perfectly still, simply letting Claude set the pace, saliva running down the length of his shaft and pooling over his balls. When he starts jerking him off, though, he can't quite hold back - neither the moan from deep within his throat or the slight, slight thrust of his hips upwards. Luckily, Claude's begun to draw back at this point and he only ends up thrusting along his tongue, briefly, before he stops himself.
Then, Claude sinks back down.
He realises only then that he's actively gripping Claude's hair now between his fingers, hard enough to pull. He relaxes his grip quickly, his mind somehow anchoring itself to the feel of Claude's hand against his thigh, the gentle patterns of his fingers. Breathe. He does so, slowly, and as he exhales, the pleasure seemingly doubles. Fuck. Fuck, that's crazy. Claude's mouth is so warm and tight and he feels like he's melting into him, mind and essence and whatever's left after that.
Nothing. There's nothing left he won't want to put into him. ]
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The thought along with Jean Louis' response, the tight hold in his hair, firm, hard, makes him groan around his mouthful, though he doesn't fasten his pace, just keeps going slow, steady, even, a rhythm but a patient one. They're chasing the long haul, here, they're not short-sighted enough, either of them, to do anything else. Right?
Pushing Jean Louis' cock in as far as it'll go without him actively taking him down his throat, even pressing a little extra against his uvula out of eagerness and he has to suppress a cough, it's pure want, okay, Claude starts bobbing his head up and down, deep takes every time, sliding him all the way in, then halfway out, then back. His head is full of him, his scent, taste, the girth of his cock, the weight on his tongue, there's so much Jean Louis in him, he can't fit any more in there. He'd lose himself in the process, if so. Claude slips the hand currently jerking him off down to Jean Louis' balls, cupping them briefly, just feeling how tight they are, rolling them gently between his fingers, his other hand keeping up the stroking of the other man's thigh, the soothing caresses. A part of him would like to touch himself, his own cock is leaking from desperation at this point, but another part, old and rooted, painfully, reminds him that he shouldn't, that he should wait, wait for... wait for...
For what? Fuck that, he doesn't have time for either the question or the answers right now.
He moans loudly, shifting on his knees a couple of times and then starts upping the pace a little, fingering Jean Louis' balls softly, knowing he's sensitive, knowing he'll feel him and that he'll want to. Everywhere.
Knowing he has him. He holds him, like this. Swallowing hard, feeling his whole mouth tighten, lips closing tight around the shaft of Jean Louis' cock as he drags himself off of him all the way to the head, only stopping right before he's popping him out of his mouth. Then, Claude sucks. Soft, rolling, wet motions of spit and his cheeks hollowing, creating that sense of tightness, of floating away.
If Jean Louis is being brave enough to letting himself be held, Claude wants it to be a warm grasp, understanding, loving. ]
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When Claude moans and shifts, it takes his pleasure-addled brain a few seconds to realise that he isn't touching himself at all - he's using both his hands. Jean Louis cranes his neck a little to see, having to blink to focus enough at this point, and - yes. Claude's cock looks painfully hard, red at the tip, and he licks his lips without thinking, just as Claude gives a particularly good suck.
Gasping, he clears his throat, swallows for good measure and manages in a tone of voice that's nowhere near even or impressive: ]
You - you need to - [ He groans and shifts back on the bed, his left arm trembling from holding himself up. ] - you should touch yourself. Enjoy it with me.
[ He runs his hand through Claude's hair again, slowly now, before cupping the back of his neck. Then, slowly, he leans himself backwards until he can't go any further, back fully against the bed, and allows himself to simply... lay down. Relax. The throbbing in his shoulder immediately fades into the background, the wetness of Claude's mouth around his cock and the added sensation of his fingers against him - thigh, balls - creating the most perfect pace, not too fast, gentle, because Claude is like that.
Consequently, when they're together, so is he.
He leans his head back and closes his eyes, his hips shifting very, very slightly upwards whenever Claude takes him into his mouth, creating that slide, the sense of friction between the other man's lips. His breathing is loud, ragged. ]
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He is more or less twisting beneath Claude's ministrations now, though. The other man's breathing sounds ragged, harsh, exploding out of him and his chest is heaving, shining from sweat, the coarse hairs there catching the droplets and the droplets catching the light, like diamonds. It's beautiful. Claude watches him, keeping the rhythm of his mouth and the accompanying motion of his fingers, fondling him, even, slowly towards the finish line. This is a marathon, not a sprint. This is a gift, not a game.
Shifting himself, because his cock feels actually, physically painful, throbbing like he's got all Jean Louis' arousal in his body besides his own, like he's swallowing that down, too, Claude groans in frustration, fingers curling against Jean Louis' thigh, digging his fingertips in a bit, to feel the other man, since he apparently still can't make himself feel his own fucking body. But because Jean Louis is observant and because Jean Louis considers what he wants to consider, he hears the other man tell him to touch himself, enjoy it with him and Claude hears himself whimper, spreading his knees farther apart for balance and finally, reluctantly withdraws from Jean Louis' thigh, his sweat-slick hand feeling burning against his length as he reaches down, his cock weeping as he starts stroking himself, desperately. Eagerly, without holding back. He needs... he needs to feel... His spit sliding down over the rest of Jean Louis' length, pooling over his balls, slipping in between his buttocks, making everything glisten wetly, Claude stares wide-eyed at everything and anything he can see of the other man right now. His shaft, pushing in and drawing out of his mouth, tongue flat up against the underside, thighs, spread wide, balls, the hint of buttocks, the alluring darkness between them.
Whining hungrily, he releases Jean Louis' balls and catches a drizzle of his own saliva on his fingers before pushing them in between the other man's buttocks, going blind and managing regardless, because he knows the way, he's been here before. Jean Louis likes to get finger-fucked, he likes ass play and with an endless sense of gentleness, Claude finds his asshole with his fingertips, but rather than penetrating, he just rubs the rim wetly, in circular motions, following the natural outline, not forcing, not entering, just stimulating.
All the while, he's jerking himself off faster and faster, his vision blurring at the edges and his whole body tense, the muscles in his back, upper arms, abdomen. He's tight all over. Enjoy it with me, Jean Louis asked.
There's the difference. ]
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Then, Claude takes his hand off his balls and the sense of impending climax dissipates ever so slightly, it's just the difference between touch and no-touch, a minor sensory disruption and though he does squirm very slightly, it's doesn't truly matter, Claude's mouth is definitely getting him there, getting him there fast. He holds onto the back of Claude's neck, fingertips digging into his skin, following the motion of his head as the other man works himself up and down his length.
Just as he closes in on that edge, like he can feel it, Claude presses his fingers in between his buttocks, rubbing the rim of his arsehole and making sparks fly from his lower body and up his spine. Eyes snapping open, he stares up at the ceiling wordlessly, breathlessly. His hand tightens harshly against the back of Claude's neck as he tumbles over that edge, pleasure surging through him. He doesn't even manage to consider the notion that Claude might not want to swallow; he comes in his mouth, filling him up, his hips thrusting upwards, inwards. Moaning, he pushes his head back against the pillow, feeling that restless urge to keep thrusting, deeper and harder, to make himself empty, but this, at least, he manages to control; instead, he sinks down against the bed, his muscles shaking.
His mind becomes blissfully blank. ]
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And then, Jean Louis comes in his mouth, he didn't ask, but there's no need, Claude takes it, he swallows it down, he hasn't tasted cum in ages, he was wondering whether he'd still like it, the way he loved it back then, but he hadn't needed to worry, he fucking loves it, the whole experience, all sensory inputs at once, the feeling of Jean Louis hardening as he forces himself inside of him again and again, the sounds of him, moaning for it, and the feeling, everything tensing and his asshole twitching and the sweat of his inner thighs, it's all beautiful.
On top of that, add the sounds of Claude's own hand, jerking him off hard now, desperately drawing it out of himself. One moment he's swallowing, the next Jean Louis is empty and Claude pops his cock out of his mouth, staring unseeingly ahead, pressing his brow in against the other man's hipbone, feeling the hard curve of it, and he jerks himself off until he's following right along, coming all over the sheets, gasping, whining for it and having the taste of the other man slicking up the back of his tongue.
It's beautiful. This thing they share, whatever it is, whatever it's going to be, it's beautiful.
He gasps against Jean Louis' skin, kissing him, whatever he can reach, feeling his own climax dying down slowly and wanting nothing more than to snuggle up to him, feel his arm around his shoulders, around his body. Being held.
Wanting nothing more than that. Beautiful. ]