[ The taste of blood remains as a persistent echo while Marcel pulls him closer, the kiss growing deeper and the mood changing gradually towards something hotter. He exhales slowly through the water running down his face, as Marcel presses his hand over the ridge of his hipbone, a hard grip, very insistent. It's how Marcel works, of course; you either do or you don't. Middle ground's a matter of running fast enough to make the appropriate distance and happily, they always seem to make it, the two of them. Ever since the beginning. He leans in closer, hand holding the cloth dropping down Marcel's shoulder until he simply lets go of the fabric, grabbing onto his upper arm instead. There's bruising here, too, though a lot more on his lower arm (defensive) and while Jean Louis doesn't insult him by gentling his grip, he keeps his fingers well out of the way of the worst damage. He can do that, easily. Be mindful, if nothing else.

Breaking the kiss, he draws back just enough to run both hands down Marcel's upper body, fingers pressing in over his ribs and the hard contours of muscle. Nothing broken, obviously, or the man would be at least struggling slightly for breath but he's feeling him out anyway because he fucking can. Down, all the way to his hips, then up again, pressing over his stomach, gaze once more drawn to the path of his own fingers and the skin beneath them. He licks his lips, tasting the remnants of blood. The water washes it out quickly enough.

He doesn't touch Marcel's cock, though it's mere inches away from his palms. His own cock's hardening between them as well, pressing against Marcel's thigh. Frowning, he traces one, large bruise on the side of Marcel's abdomen, fingertips ghosting over the pattern of discolouration. Then, without further ado, he bends down (past Marcel's cock, thank you, right in his face), grabs the soap and straightens up again, pouring out a generous amount onto his palm. ]