[ 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
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]