[ They're just half a step from being completely in sync, Claude taking his lead, following, letting himself be lead, and there's a crucial difference between almost and utterly, crucial with regards to everything in life but most certainly, to what you do in the bedroom. Sex, he thinks, needs a slight amount of disarray, a quivering balance that doesn't leave you stranded out of turn but requires you to act continuously, the pull of give and take. He's always been aware of that, has never particularly liked it, but the alternative to a willing, active partner would be fucking a blow-up doll and that's just a tragedy he can't embrace.
He pauses at the feel of the bed hitting the back of his legs, about to shift downwards and leave Claude to follow at his own pace, when the other man crosses the distance between them again, leaning in and pressing his mouth against the side of his neck. His lips are hot, his breath equally so, and he breathes in faster again, composure rattled. Though Jean Louis' obviously in control - from his sheer societal status to his age to the way he's been taking initiative all evening - something about Claude's personality, about his boldness, feels weirdly charming to the point where he probably shouldn't think about it any further. It's no matter. It's the way of things. But fine, he can have it. He can have this, too.
Reaching up, he runs his fingers through Claude's curly hair, longer than you might expect and soft to the touch. He digs his fingertips through it, feels the heated skin of his scalp as he cranes his neck to give him room, just slightly, just enough to send the right signal (it's good, keep doing that, it's fine). Because moments later - one breath, two, the third decidedly laboured - he grabs hold of Claude's shoulder, slips one leg behind his knees and uses his full body weight to pull them both backwards onto the bed. He takes care to roll sideways slightly on the way, to make sure that he doesn't land flat on his back with Claude on top - that's bound to knock the wind out of him, after all, and what's the fun in that? Instead, he makes sure to twist mid-way, leaving them sprawled sideways on the bed opposite each other, his fingers spread out against Claude's shoulder blade while the bed-springs positively screech beneath them. ]
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He pauses at the feel of the bed hitting the back of his legs, about to shift downwards and leave Claude to follow at his own pace, when the other man crosses the distance between them again, leaning in and pressing his mouth against the side of his neck. His lips are hot, his breath equally so, and he breathes in faster again, composure rattled. Though Jean Louis' obviously in control - from his sheer societal status to his age to the way he's been taking initiative all evening - something about Claude's personality, about his boldness, feels weirdly charming to the point where he probably shouldn't think about it any further. It's no matter. It's the way of things. But fine, he can have it. He can have this, too.
Reaching up, he runs his fingers through Claude's curly hair, longer than you might expect and soft to the touch. He digs his fingertips through it, feels the heated skin of his scalp as he cranes his neck to give him room, just slightly, just enough to send the right signal (it's good, keep doing that, it's fine). Because moments later - one breath, two, the third decidedly laboured - he grabs hold of Claude's shoulder, slips one leg behind his knees and uses his full body weight to pull them both backwards onto the bed. He takes care to roll sideways slightly on the way, to make sure that he doesn't land flat on his back with Claude on top - that's bound to knock the wind out of him, after all, and what's the fun in that? Instead, he makes sure to twist mid-way, leaving them sprawled sideways on the bed opposite each other, his fingers spread out against Claude's shoulder blade while the bed-springs positively screech beneath them. ]