[ Claude runs his fingers through his hair, and for a moment he simply leans into the touch, ignoring all thoughts of ruined hairstyles and messy strands. There's a time and a place for vanity, specifically whenever he needs people to stare themselves blind without actually seeing anything of importance in the process. Even in bed, it can be useful - but here, now, with Claude, there's... breathing room. And thus, he breathes. In and out. Lets the slight touch of fingers steal away at his senses for a few seconds before getting back to work on the other man's trousers.
The sound of the zipper going down is brief but almost harsh in the quiet around them. He lets his gaze slide downwards, over Claude's naked upper body and stomach to the lines of his underwear. True to form, the other man's wearing briefs - that in itself makes for an interesting sight, considering the size of his cock. But naturally, Claude the Performer must up the ante in this regard, thus choosing a pair of pastel pink briefs with a broad, white hem. They look like something he's picked up from a Barbie commercial. A very grown-up Barbie commercial.
With a slow smile, he lets Claude push the trousers down and pulls back, lips wet and tingling, the taste of salt and Ralph Lauren cologne lingering on his tongue. There's something distinctively Claude as well, in the mix. He'll have that amplified soon enough, won't he? Shuffling backwards on his knees, doing his very best not to get their legs entangled, he flattens his palms over the broad expanses of Claude's upper-thighs, feeling the muscles quiver underneath. Then, he pulls the jeans down, pushing them over his knees (rolling them off, more or less, dear God, it's like peeling off a second skin layer), before kneeling on the floor between his legs.
From his position, he's got a very proper view of Claude's more-than-halfway-there erection, leaving his briefs looking quite strained and overworked. Well. Patience is a virtue, they say. ]
I normally hate jeans. [ Spoken casually, conversationally, though there's a hint of breathiness in his voice that gives him away and really, anything else would probably seem strange at this point. Hands working as efficiently as always, he rolls the fabric over Claude's shins, down towards his ankles, palms sliding over his exposed skin in the process. Even in terms of body hair, they're alike - Claude's muscles, on the other hand, are very different from his, not as elongated and stronger, too. ] But these, I somehow like. Do wear them more often.
[ With that, he pulls them off Claude's feet (ballet dancer feet, they say, but there's really nothing particularly wrong with them that he can see) and dumps them on the floor somewhere off to the side. Gone, out of sight. ]
no subject
The sound of the zipper going down is brief but almost harsh in the quiet around them. He lets his gaze slide downwards, over Claude's naked upper body and stomach to the lines of his underwear. True to form, the other man's wearing briefs - that in itself makes for an interesting sight, considering the size of his cock. But naturally, Claude the Performer must up the ante in this regard, thus choosing a pair of pastel pink briefs with a broad, white hem. They look like something he's picked up from a Barbie commercial. A very grown-up Barbie commercial.
With a slow smile, he lets Claude push the trousers down and pulls back, lips wet and tingling, the taste of salt and Ralph Lauren cologne lingering on his tongue. There's something distinctively Claude as well, in the mix. He'll have that amplified soon enough, won't he? Shuffling backwards on his knees, doing his very best not to get their legs entangled, he flattens his palms over the broad expanses of Claude's upper-thighs, feeling the muscles quiver underneath. Then, he pulls the jeans down, pushing them over his knees (rolling them off, more or less, dear God, it's like peeling off a second skin layer), before kneeling on the floor between his legs.
From his position, he's got a very proper view of Claude's more-than-halfway-there erection, leaving his briefs looking quite strained and overworked. Well. Patience is a virtue, they say. ]
I normally hate jeans. [ Spoken casually, conversationally, though there's a hint of breathiness in his voice that gives him away and really, anything else would probably seem strange at this point. Hands working as efficiently as always, he rolls the fabric over Claude's shins, down towards his ankles, palms sliding over his exposed skin in the process. Even in terms of body hair, they're alike - Claude's muscles, on the other hand, are very different from his, not as elongated and stronger, too. ] But these, I somehow like. Do wear them more often.
[ With that, he pulls them off Claude's feet (ballet dancer feet, they say, but there's really nothing particularly wrong with them that he can see) and dumps them on the floor somewhere off to the side. Gone, out of sight. ]