[ Claude doesn't as such have any insecurities concerning his body. He's used to staring in the mirror and finding fault with himself from early in the morning till midnight, but he also recognizes that he's objectively very good-looking with a nicely defined muscle mass, symmetrical features and, he's been told, a contagious laugh. All good; he knows he looks great once he's out of his clothes, nevertheless he feels the jitters move right in as they finally find themselves in the bedroom, Jean Louis and him, at opposite ends of the smallish bed, with only a few metres between them. He's nervous. About what the other man will think - of the sleeping accommodations that he can offer, of him, damn it.
Slowly he works on unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging out of the fabric easily, the muscles in his shoulders working at the simple movement. Claude isn't a neat freak, he doesn't need everything to lie tidily in its place and his bedroom especially shows for it, so he drops the shirt to the floor and starts on his trousers, unzipping and pushing them down over his hips. They are agonizingly slow to slide down his thighs. Not until he's standing there in socks and briefs does he really give it thought, what he's actually expecting might happen now. They haven't properly discussed the situation after their kiss and maybe they should have, but it never came up naturally and Claude hates to force these things, it's not supposed to be uncomfortable. What does he expect? That they sleep together? That they don't?
Glancing quickly over at Jean Louis who looks out of place with the heavy desk behind him and the old-fashioned, white-painted arm chairs on either side, the bed on his right, Claude watches him furtively like a schoolboy, it seems a given, that it'll be up to him. This entire night has been his doing, after all, let the Minister get the final say. ]
[ The bedroom's not just on the smaller side - it feels minuscule, perhaps especially now with the two of them undressing in relative silence, broken only by the rustling of their clothes. There's something about the feel of Claude's lips that seem to linger still, no doubt mostly his imagination playing tricks but that, in itself, is odd. He's not the sentimental type by any stretch and kissing men isn't generally something he even partially enjoys. Then again, the last woman he bedded was Lisette, one week ago, and he can't even remember what she tasted like, let alone how she felt. Fingers working the buttons on his shirt open with methodological precision, he pushes the thoughts away. Lets his shirt fall open and turns his gaze to Claude who's mostly done undressing now, standing there in his socks and underwear, looking... maybe the slightest bit lost.
No shame in needing a bit of direction, right?
Shrugging out of his shirt, he holds it loosely in one hand and pauses. Looks the younger man over slowly, not primarily to enjoy his looks (though he is, objectively, good-looking in many ways - if nothing else, he does have eyes) but for the sake of communication. It might be easier, simply telling him that they'll only be heading straight to sleep if that's what Claude's expecting, if that's what he wants. But there's also a certain beauty in making him choose without handing him everything on a silver platter. Life's like that, after all. Thus, he simply watches him in silence, from the symmetrical lines of his face to the defined muscles of his upper body, thighs, legs. Eyes snapping back to his face, he raises an eyebrow slowly, puts his shirt away and turns slightly to the side.
[ It's a say in itself, the way Jean Louis' turns his attention to Claude, then, his shirt hanging limply from between his fingers - the way he lets his eyes run down Claude's body, then up again at an equally slow pace, agonizingly slow, shit. Claude can feel the responding warmth in his loins, the way everything tightens up just that bit more between his legs. Briefs aren't the right underwear to put on, if you're expecting to hiding that sort of development, how you're slowly but surely getting hard, so it's a good thing he doesn't intend to hide himself away, isn't it? Clearing his throat, he shifts from one foot to the other, only a bit uneasily, mostly to redistribute his balance and returns the favor, letting his eyes follow how Jean Louis raises an eyebrow at him and turns away slightly, the shirt being done away with without further ado, before he stands with his side to him, all toned muscle and chest hair, his hands working on his trousers now.
Jean Louis is of a slim build, not that he looks scrawny or thin as such, though Claude imagines that he might have when he was a child, but his muscle tone distributes itself like it does in a swimmer, all elongated lines and flatness, completely unlike Claude's own bulge. Taking a deep breath, Claude bends down to tug off his socks, keeping another furtive eye on the other man through his bangs that fall into his face in a surprisingly long curl. As his trousers slip down, his legs look unexpectedly strong - Claude hadn't imagined that an office-bound politician like him would have time to do any of the work that is required to built up your legs that way, but obviously he was wrong. This man doesn't just go for the weekly run, he... does something, has he read about anything like that? Could be dancing, honestly, with those kind of thigh muscles, but it could be a lot of other things, too. Claude's curious, yet doesn't ask. It feels unfitting in the situation.
And right now the situation is of the essence.
He does away with his socks, straightens up and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, hesitating only a second before sliding them down and off. He's less than half-hard, but definitely more than flaccid. Claude wets his lips. Looks over at Jean Louis again. This should be indication enough, right? Shit, he should say it, but he doesn't - that he really thinks they should sleep together, because he doesn't normally sleep commando and baring yourself for another person is always the worst feeling, if you're doing it in vain. ]
[ The mood warms gradually as Claude looks back at him in turn, his roaming gaze making his skin feel heated, like a slap of electric current. The familiar sensation of being watched. Before he entered politics, he'd hated the feeling of people looking at him too closely; somehow, it triggered a habitual watchfulness and it still does today, though in a different, less difficult manner. With a half-smile, he steps out of his trousers fully, folding them before putting them away on the nearby office chair. Unlike Claude, he's wearing boxers and while they wouldn't really hide much of anything if he'd been truly aroused, they're mostly just folds and shadows still, his body warming up slowly. Slower, he notes, by... comparison.
Thank God it's always been like this, regardless of time or place or, even, partner. If not, he'd certainly feel old by now.
Toeing out of his socks and leaving them on the floor somewhat negligently, he takes a moment - just a moment - to register that Claude's half-hard cock matches up perfectly with the rest of him, a matter of volume without even a hint of outright vulgarity. It's almost ridiculous, isn't it, for someone to be so perfectly, unquestionably consistent. With Claude (unlike himself, come now, he knows how it is), it doesn't even stop at the physical attributes. It's in the way he looks at you throughout a conversation, too, how he seems so ready to absorb without giving away his integrity, a work in progress as it's bound to be for a man in his mid-twenties. It's a pleasant combination. Peaceful.
Dropping his boxers, he stretches up. Eyes Claude calmly, unhurried, before unfastening his rolex watch, the only thing still left on his body. He loosens the strap and pulls the silver off his wrist. There's something about dropping the watch, leaving his small but completely, utterly, significant tattoo visible, that makes him feel more naked than before. Last time he did this, chose to... be with a man who wasn't Marcel... that had been a disaster, hadn't it? But looking at Claude now, the younger man at least to some degree out of his element, knowing what he knows about him already...
It's different, this time. He knows, as his body knows, arousal rising slowly without even a trace of apprehensiveness. He holds out a hand, palm open. A suggestion. ]
[ Wordlessly, he follows the journey of the Rolex watch which, in the end, simply takes the same path the rest of it did, the shirt, the trousers, the boxers. From Jean Louis' body to the chair, to the desk, to the -- His eyes snap back to the other man who's now definitely naked, as naked as Claude is himself and suddenly it's not so horribly awkward being halfway aroused, because Jean Louis sure doesn't look untouched by the atmosphere either, even if his age is showing. Both their ages are. With a deep, shuttering breath, Claude considers the fact that he, once again, has ended up with a man notably older than himself, that one should think he might have learned his lesson by now, but it just... doesn't matter, does it? He can't punish all older men because Rainier was a manipulative arsehole. It wouldn't be fair to them and more importantly, it wouldn't be fair to himself. Then he wouldn't get experiences like this one and shit, it's so obviously going to be an experience. Yes. Yes.
Come here, please, Jean Louis asks and Claude moves across the floor in response, only the first step a jerk, the rest fluid, languid. He doesn't move hurriedly, but quickly enough not to keep the man waiting. He's asking so nicely, after all. Smiling, Claude comes to a halt only a couple of feet away, at the very end of Jean Louis' outstretched arm, his hand turned up, palm open. The lighter slip of skin where his watch usually resides sports a tattoo, not huge, but noticeable. A Roman numeral, one. Claude frowns, reaches up lightly and runs his fingers over it, halfway expecting Jean Louis to withdraw, though the touch itself is a request for permission. If he does withdraw, no is the answer and that's fine, too. That's fine.
Looking up at the other man, Claude realizes that the sudden proximity really isn't going to do him any favors in the arousal department. Up close, Jean Louis is all shade and darkness, he has a strong face, almost ridiculously intense features. Slap some makeup on him and he'd do well on stage in the right kind of roles. He hesitates another second, then he speaks, letting his fingers spread out over Jean Louis' wrist in perfect time. ]
[ After less than a second, exhibiting no visible signs of hesitation, Claude comes. Slips across the floor, showing that spectacular fluidity in every movement, even in this tiny room with all its heavy implications. His thoughts flash back to the ballet, to one particular scene that he can't remember finding all that astonishing when he saw it, certainly not enough to merit this recall - yet even so, he can't help but think about the way Claude looked, throwing himself across the stage, shadows and light catching and transforming the shape of his body for every near-impossible pose. He'd been unmoved by the story as a whole, the music had made him want to go to sleep sitting up, but something about that scene managed to slip across the boundary between the stage and his audience seat. The fourth-wall, they say. As they please.
There'd been an unrest in it, a sense of tearing apart. Something very raw and painful.
And now, with Claude looking at him with that smile of his, radiating warmth, his fingers slipping over the skin of his wrist and making his arm tingle all the way up the shoulder and neck, the contrast is, quite simply... fascinating. Such extremes in one, single man; no wonder he's been drawn to the stage, if nothing else, the stories certainly seem colourful enough to accommodate the span.
Why the number one, asks the man who made the audience roar. In a way, it's almost endearing, isn't it? He doesn't move his arm away or out of reach, choosing instead to run his other palm up the side of Claude's upper arm, fingers spreading out over his bare shoulder. Just resting there as he steps forward, voice gaining a certain amount of roughness; a note of something dark and expectant. Like this, he's close, close enough to almost feel the other man's breath against his face. ]
[ Jean Louis doesn't draw back, away, out of reach, he remains a presence underneath Claude's palm and Claude is about to tighten his hold on his wrist, when the other man reaches up and runs his free hand up the side of his arm, all the way up to his shoulder which he then grasps, fingers spreading out in a mirror image of how Claude's fingers did before. On him. They're reflections of each other, similar, but reversed, somehow. The thought, even more so than the touch of Jean Louis' hand against his naked skin, makes goosebumps rise all the way down his arms and his cock is suddenly much more aware, much more awake. Fuck. Hearing how his breathing is quickening slightly, Claude licks his bottom lip a bit nervously while Jean Louis steps closer, so close that he is staring more at his nose, spotting, spotting, than into his eyes, too much of a good thing, right? Too much. Why in the world not?
Claude works in an environment that's focused on performance and perfection and on being number one always, he knows, of course, why it would be number one instead of number two or three, because number one is where you want to be, you want to be the best, the first... Politics are probably even worse, objectively speaking. If you're not number one, then you're not on the legislature. Your name goes unnoticed and influence passes you by. From what Claude gathers about Luxembourgian politics, Jean Louis is not in any danger of being overlooked. He's very loud and he's very clear and he's very popular. If nothing else, people love to hate him. Right now, Claude would just love to kiss him.
So he does. He leans in, breathes harshly, quickly and presses his lips to the other man's. It's an explosive kind of kiss, not aggressive, just overwhelming, mostly due to how overwhelmed Claude feels. Their lips slide across each other and Claude's tongue makes a polite attempt at asking, again, again, for permission to enter, running across the rather bulging expanse of lower lip that marks Jean Louis' face. Shit, he's so warm. He smells distinctive and heated in Claude's nostrils. It's so good. So good. ]
[ For a second or two, he gets entirely fixated on the way Claude licks his bottom lip, that nervous gesture that makes him seem all the more appealing. This close, his scent is suddenly very clear, a bright splash of... what? Ralph Lauren? He can't be certain, though he's been exposed to mostly every available big-name branch, attempting to figure out what he wanted for himself, the process that landed him soundly with Armani. It would suit him, wouldn't it. The sport, the competitiveness. And of course - naturally - subtlety in the easiest, most obvious sense, hiding more or less in plain sight. You'd expect something different from, say, the sharp aggressiveness of Hugo Boss. Armani, too, all edges.
When Claude leans in and kisses him, he's almost surprised, just slightly, by the intensity of it. Like he's rushing to make it happen, which - judging by the hardness of his cock, its contours visible between their bodies, probably isn't far from the truth. He takes a second to respond to the feel of his tongue, running along his bottom lip. It surprises him, this eagerness. Then again, with that kind of energy bundled up in every muscle, how could the younger man be any other way? His own fault, for being taken aback.
Usually, the feeling would take away from his own arousal, but for some reason, right now it doesn't really seem to matter much. His blood is definitely rushing south, his body warming up faster now and his cock growing steadfastly harder. And he's not even annoyed, just... well. Just eager to push them both onwards, regain his footing. It's as if Claude doesn't even notice that he lost it in the first place which is just plain absurd, and he pushes the thought away with no further interest. Taking Claude's initiative for what it clearly is, he parts his lips and lets him have this one, tiny, step towards the lead. He slips his hand backwards over the broad muscles of his shoulder, before running his fingers along the length of his spine, the muscles underneath the other man's heated skin working, moving, in time with his breathing. Yes, he's warm to the touch, warm and, for lack of better word, vibrant; as his fingers curve against the back of Claude's neck, he thinks about how easy he could snap it, one move, crack! Nothing but the echo of a falling body and then, silence.
[ There's a brief pause where they both seem to wait for the other, though Claude can't figure out what it is Jean Louis is waiting for from him, but then the other man parts his lips, Claude's tongue slipping past, slipping inside and there's always that first rush of French kissing, isn't there, the heat and the wetness and the sensation of the other person's tongue slipping up against your own. His breath hitches slightly in his throat while he lets the tip of his own run up the underside of Jean Louis'. Like a caress. Softly. Hoping, unlike himself, that he's giving whatever it is Jean Louis' waiting on. Usually it's really not something he thinks about too closely and neither is he expecting this to be the beginning of a grand love story, but still... There's something rather horrible about the thought of disappointing this particular man that's really doing a number on his eagerness. His determination. His will to deliver.
Number one, Jean Louis has tattood on his wrist. Well, Claude knows the feeling, alright.
Jean Louis' hand moves from his upper arm around to his shoulder blade, over muscle and bone and draws lines to his spine which he follows up to the nape of Claude's neck, fingers taking hold in a way that's probably a bit too possessive, a bit too dominant for Claude's usual taste, but he lets it slip, because it feels so fucking good - the warmth of his palm, the strength in his fingers, fingertips digging in slightly on either side, shit, it's sending shivers down his spine, the exact way Jean Louis came from and it all comes together beautifully. Beautifully.
Letting a slight murmur slip into the kiss, he angles his head better, steps closer, that one step which brings them almost chest to chest, with just wriggle room enough for Claude to slide a hand up over Jean Louis' abdomen, from his navel and up over his chest, the coarseness of his chest hair tickling his skin in that familiar, welcome fashion that he really does love. He doesn't have a preference for men with hair, he just really appreciates the ones who do for what they've got. It's another way in which they appear to match up, look alike, even if it's only on a surface level. Claude flicks his tongue against the tip of Jean Louis', flattens his hand completely across a nipple and the nice definition of pecs. Someone really oughta tell him what this guy's up to in his spare time, it feels great.
This close he can feel the heat of Jean Louis' hardening cock against his lower abdomen, not to far from his own and his shifts on his feet slightly, not in an attempt to push closer, to push together, but because he's so damn eager, shit. He almost can't wait to touch it and when did Claude Bérubé last feel this way about sex with anyone?
Maybe the answer lies in the next questions. When did he even last have sex? ]
[ Claude kisses with a carefulness that's difficult to replicate; Jean Louis doesn't even attempt it, knowing full well that he'd seem dishonest and that's not what he's going for tonight, not by a mile. Instead, he gives Claude another second's worth of control - he's a good kisser, isn't he, he knows full well how this works - before angling his head slightly to the side and deepening the kiss. Pushing his tongue slowly, perhaps a bit assertively, into Claude's mouth, he takes what he's offered, the heat of the other man's mouth rushing directly into his bloodstream, speeding things up exponentially. His cock hardens further, all the way, and as he shifts closer, close enough to align their bodies, he can feel Claude's hard-on more fully against his abdomen. Equally persistent. And needy, too.
So they're definitely in agreement, still.
When Claude runs his hand over his stomach and up, his warm touch leaving his skin feeling almost hyper-sensitive in its wake, his breathing quickens in response, the kiss turning shallow after a few seconds. As he flattens his palm over his nipple, Jean Louis breaks the kiss with a harsh exhalation, the spark of pleasure making him lose his focus momentarily. His hand tightens just a fraction against the back of the other man's neck, eyes narrowing. He's not angry, not even startled, just falling behind or so it seems - and that will never do.
Thus, he pulls back, managing not to break the contact between their bodies in the process, and looks towards the bed. Shifts backwards ever so slightly, though he doesn't actively try to pull or force the other man into following along. After all, with how this night's processing, he clearly doesn't have to. Under other circumstances - normal circumstances, he can't help but think - the thought would have been disappointing, perhaps enough to make him lose his drive. But Claude's not Lisette, he's not Electra (who never did get herself a proper burial with lilies and some ridiculous Coldplay number hammered out on the church organ - stupid bitch) and he's definitely not Daniel either. They're not waging a war tonight, the man's a pacifist if he ever saw one, and the only really surprising, astonishing part of if all is how it doesn't make him seem even the least bit weak. ]
[ They're gasping into each other's mouths at this point, panting away and Claude feels slightly light-headed, like he's just survived a particularly tough rehearsal, full-scale Swan Lake or something of a similar technical demand. Their bodies have become aligned, chest against chest, Claude's hand caught somewhere in between, and lower body against lower body, their cocks two parallels up their stomachs. Fuck. His breath is a shaky affair right now. When Jean Louis draws away, Claude almost wants to whimper, but doesn't, mostly by sheer fucking will. The other man casts a look towards the bed and starts backing towards it, somehow not really pulling on Claude to follow, Claude just does... Takes the lead, in the sense of allowing Jean Louis to lead him where he wants them to go, because it's where Claude wants to go, too. The bed? Sounds good to him, sounds very, very good. Perfect. Bloody amazing.
There's a weird discrepancy to Jean Louis like this, pulling him along without actively pulling and there's a moment where all Claude can think is demagogue, the seducer of the public, because all politicians are and from what he's been able to pick up on the Luxembourgian political stage, Jean Louis especially. It's not a thought he really holds on to, it's not particularly welcome right now, but the image remains at the back of his head, that he's now the public that Jean Louis Girard is seducing. That he's doing so very easily. Not that it matters, what matters is how Claude's cock is bumping lightly against the warm skin of Jean Louis' stomach, a gentle tap, tap, tap which makes his breath catch. All that matters is the intense look in Jean Louis eyes, mixed with an unusual calmness, the way it's so obvious that they want each other, that it's mutual, that they're equal. They're equal in wanting each other, now, here.
So he waits until the back of Jean Louis' legs meet the edge of the bed before he leans in again, leans up, because Jean Louis is still slightly taller than him, they're talking centimeters, and presses his mouth, open and heaving, against the side of the other man's neck. It's not a bite, but there's the definite scraping of teeth, the softness of lips, the wetness of tongue. All together now. His hand falls away from Jean Louis' chest, runs up to his shoulder, holds on for dear life. ]
[ 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. ]
[ The sensation of losing your footing, of losing your balance, of falling isn't unfamiliar to Claude, Lord knows he's slipped a fair amount of times while dancing, both on and off stage, but slipping while you're well and truly underway sexually is another experience, one he hasn't had before and as he comes tumbling down onto the mattress, Jean Louis landing undoubtedly more gracefully than he himself did, Claude gasps and sucks in a surprised fuck while slowly coming to, now located squarely on the bed that creaks horribly beneath the combined weight of two proportionally-sized men. They're lying next to each other, on their sides, the room between them minimal and Jean Louis' arm still gripping him by the shoulder, adding to the feeling of proximity. Claude glances down, at the way their cocks fill out the middle space well and good and they are really in need of condoms now, because Claude wants to do some genuine touching within the next five minutes. Being confirmed in his suspicion than Jean Louis Girard practices some sort of martial arts only adds to this need.
Even if he hasn't actively sought out sex for the past six - what, eight months, twelve? Shit, has it really been a full year? - he always leaves condoms in his bedside table's drawer, if nothing else, it's a principle. The drawer is located by the headboard behind Jean Louis' back and Claude frowns for a second, before rolling closer to the other man fluidly, avoiding with some luck not to knee him anywhere in the process. They're all aligned. Legs and chests and stomach and cocks. He swallows thickly, follows the outline of Jean Louis' facial features with his gaze for half a second, then leans in and kisses him again, slower to seek entrance this time. It's a matter of concentration. With his right arm he's reaching out, fumbling for the drawer and prying it open by sheer will power. It's easy enough, fishing out two pieces and leaving the drawer open to fend for itself while he returns his attention fully to Jean Louis, angling his head, their noses bumping in the process and it doesn't really matter, it feels good, to run his tongue across Jean Louis' bottom lip again. It's really quite devilishly shaped, huh?
To avoid any unnecessary fumbling, he finds Jean Louis' free hand with his own, lets his fingertips run across his palm lightly before dropping a condom into his open hand. Here, help a guy out, the gesture says. ]
[ Claude shifts closer, aligning their bodies completely and leaving their fronts touching from shoulders to toes. And of course everything in between, too. If he were to angle his hips just so, they'd basically be frotting; the thought, in turn, makes him feel slightly light-headed. The other man leans in and kisses him again, his intentions clearly double if the fumbling of his hand somewhere behind Jean Louis' shoulder is any inclination, and for just a second - maybe even just a half - he's alert again, uselessly so, for Claude's certainly, surely not pulling a knife or a gun out of that drawer. It's just a natural response, survival of the fittest, they say, and in that respect at least, he's always been fitter than most.
Though it shouldn't take a genius to figure out that Claude's clearly getting condoms, he hears it before he truly gets it; the sound of Claude's fingers, closing around the two wrappers, the rustling of plastic suddenly louder than the blood, rushing through his head. The feeling dissipates fast, it's nothing important, nothing worth noting, but right then - of course, he was prepared. Just in case. He breathes in slowly, Claude's scent bright and warm in the mix of oxygen and arousal. The feel of their noses bumping is amusing in its own right, yet another perfectly fitted piece, and he smiles slowly, his mood balancing out. He doesn't know how or why. It just does.
When Claude presses the condom into his hand, he knows exactly what he wants to do with it. Drawing back (and away from Claude's tongue tracing his lip - such a shame) enough to leave him room to move his hands, he tears the package open, draws out the condom and flicks the wrapper over one shoulder, into the darkness. Gaze seeking out Claude's, he looks at the other man through the shadows, follows the lines of his face, the curves of his lips and chin. He's having a hard time properly reading his expression but then again, this isn't exactly the moment for analytic thought, now is it. But he likes the softness of it over all, how they're basically just running now, the both of them, at a comfortable pace that feels neither too fast nor too sluggish. He reaches down between them, fingers trailing lightly over Claude's hard, well-trained stomach. Though he doesn't look like he works out solely for the sake of building muscle - unlike Marcel who's been building his body like others build castles or cathedrals for the past decades - he's definitely got a hard-earned body, doesn't he?
Seconds later, his fingers brush over the thick length of his cock. Taking hold of it by the base firmly, without hesitation, he rolls the condom down the other man's hard length, a quick and rather effortless gesture. All the same, it leaves him feeling curiously, indisputably breathless. ]
[ There's movement. The necessary intermediaries. Jean Louis draws back enough to earn himself room to move, to tear open the wrapper, pulling the condom out and discarding the rest. Their gazes meet, then, a vibrant moment of Jean Louis' dark eyes looking into Claude's own, while he takes his time to study his face and the sheer intimacy of it, of being watched so closely is enough to make his cock fucking weep. He breathes in heavily, shakily, deeply, doesn't push forward although he really wants to, instead waiting for Jean Louis to take the lead on this one. As if in reply, Jean Louis' hand trails down over his stomach, down and down and down - and Claude can feel his eyelids falling closed while he shutters around another intake of breath. Oh, shit, it's really happening, this. This is real life. The other man's fingers are warm against his own overheated skin and feel like an explosion of heat, when they wrap around the base of his cock. Claude feels his hips sink forward into the touch lightly, it's not really a thrust, but it's of a similar inclination. He wants more, more. Give him more.
Jean Louis rolls the condom on quickly and efficiently, another intermediary, and Claude waits with tension rising in every muscle. He wants to move, he wants to do, but he's patient, he can let the other man lead them onwards in his own time. As he hears Jean Louis' breath shake, collapse in on itself, though, he can't help it, he edges that last inch closer, pushes further into Jean Louis' grasp and reaches down between them, crossing paths with Jean Louis' arms only briefly while he unwraps his own condom, throws the wrapper aside and slowly, achingly slowly, lets his fingers find the outline of the other man's hard abdomen. His happy trail makes it an easy path to find, if he should for some reason feel uncertain about what direction he's going in at this point, laughable, but still, he follows the trail of hair down, fingers burning from the touch. Claude mutters something indistinct even to his own ears as his fingers finally make contact with the hard, hot shaft of Jean Louis' cock, the weight of it already distinctive against his palm as he moves his hand downward, takes hold around the base. Fuck, so hot, so... Rolling on the condom is an afterthought, something that he just needs to do, because Claude never has unprotected sex. He learned so much from Gilbert and this was one such thing. Never. Never.
The fact that Jean Louis didn't make a fuss of it, like some guys do... Well, maybe reasonable politicians do exist all across the spectrum. Claude tightens his grip just a tiny bit, turns his head and finds the other man's lips again, sucking that lower lip into his mouth, a definite feel of suction. Wetness and warmth. ]
[ They stay still for a moment or two, each gripping the other's cock, and it could have been potentially ridiculous if it weren't for how flat-out comfortable it all feels. Really, even if Claude isn't planning on shooting him, anyone else probably could without breaking a sweat right now. He can't remember sex ever being quite like this, and he certainly wouldn't want it to be as a regular thing, but presently, this moment? It's fine. It's perfectly fine. Jean Louis lets him suck on his lower lip for a few seconds, a rather large percentage of his concentration focused elsewhere, focused south, on Claude's grip near the base of his cock.
Though people might presume differently once they actually meet Marcel or figure out what he'll let them about his personality, their sex life isn't truly very adventurous. At least not the one they share (whatever he might be doing with that Italian skank of his, well, at this very moment, frankly, it doesn't matter). When Jean Louis fucks his women, it's the same story though the endings do tend to... vary. In any case, he's not quite sure what to expect from sleeping with men who aren't Marcel, seeing as he never does; as he runs his palm slowly up along the heavy length of Claude's shaft, he decides to take charge and just set a course, any course.
Eyes narrowing slightly in concentration, he pauses, palm lingering right beneath the head of Claude's cock, fingertips pressing in against the small ridge running along the underside. Rubbing it slowly with his thumb, up and down, his other fingers curved lightly over the shaft, he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him. This time, he doesn't wait for Claude to catch up with him - he presses his tongue against his lips, feeling the wetness of his mouth and wanting more because that's how it goes, isn't it? One good thing, drain it dry, go for the next, live. ]
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starter ( date ) part III
Slowly he works on unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging out of the fabric easily, the muscles in his shoulders working at the simple movement. Claude isn't a neat freak, he doesn't need everything to lie tidily in its place and his bedroom especially shows for it, so he drops the shirt to the floor and starts on his trousers, unzipping and pushing them down over his hips. They are agonizingly slow to slide down his thighs. Not until he's standing there in socks and briefs does he really give it thought, what he's actually expecting might happen now. They haven't properly discussed the situation after their kiss and maybe they should have, but it never came up naturally and Claude hates to force these things, it's not supposed to be uncomfortable. What does he expect? That they sleep together? That they don't?
Glancing quickly over at Jean Louis who looks out of place with the heavy desk behind him and the old-fashioned, white-painted arm chairs on either side, the bed on his right, Claude watches him furtively like a schoolboy, it seems a given, that it'll be up to him. This entire night has been his doing, after all, let the Minister get the final say. ]
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No shame in needing a bit of direction, right?
Shrugging out of his shirt, he holds it loosely in one hand and pauses. Looks the younger man over slowly, not primarily to enjoy his looks (though he is, objectively, good-looking in many ways - if nothing else, he does have eyes) but for the sake of communication. It might be easier, simply telling him that they'll only be heading straight to sleep if that's what Claude's expecting, if that's what he wants. But there's also a certain beauty in making him choose without handing him everything on a silver platter. Life's like that, after all. Thus, he simply watches him in silence, from the symmetrical lines of his face to the defined muscles of his upper body, thighs, legs. Eyes snapping back to his face, he raises an eyebrow slowly, puts his shirt away and turns slightly to the side.
Starts in on his trousers without further ado.]
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Jean Louis is of a slim build, not that he looks scrawny or thin as such, though Claude imagines that he might have when he was a child, but his muscle tone distributes itself like it does in a swimmer, all elongated lines and flatness, completely unlike Claude's own bulge. Taking a deep breath, Claude bends down to tug off his socks, keeping another furtive eye on the other man through his bangs that fall into his face in a surprisingly long curl. As his trousers slip down, his legs look unexpectedly strong - Claude hadn't imagined that an office-bound politician like him would have time to do any of the work that is required to built up your legs that way, but obviously he was wrong. This man doesn't just go for the weekly run, he... does something, has he read about anything like that? Could be dancing, honestly, with those kind of thigh muscles, but it could be a lot of other things, too. Claude's curious, yet doesn't ask. It feels unfitting in the situation.
And right now the situation is of the essence.
He does away with his socks, straightens up and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, hesitating only a second before sliding them down and off. He's less than half-hard, but definitely more than flaccid. Claude wets his lips. Looks over at Jean Louis again. This should be indication enough, right? Shit, he should say it, but he doesn't - that he really thinks they should sleep together, because he doesn't normally sleep commando and baring yourself for another person is always the worst feeling, if you're doing it in vain. ]
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Thank God it's always been like this, regardless of time or place or, even, partner. If not, he'd certainly feel old by now.
Toeing out of his socks and leaving them on the floor somewhat negligently, he takes a moment - just a moment - to register that Claude's half-hard cock matches up perfectly with the rest of him, a matter of volume without even a hint of outright vulgarity. It's almost ridiculous, isn't it, for someone to be so perfectly, unquestionably consistent. With Claude (unlike himself, come now, he knows how it is), it doesn't even stop at the physical attributes. It's in the way he looks at you throughout a conversation, too, how he seems so ready to absorb without giving away his integrity, a work in progress as it's bound to be for a man in his mid-twenties. It's a pleasant combination. Peaceful.
Dropping his boxers, he stretches up. Eyes Claude calmly, unhurried, before unfastening his rolex watch, the only thing still left on his body. He loosens the strap and pulls the silver off his wrist. There's something about dropping the watch, leaving his small but completely, utterly, significant tattoo visible, that makes him feel more naked than before. Last time he did this, chose to... be with a man who wasn't Marcel... that had been a disaster, hadn't it? But looking at Claude now, the younger man at least to some degree out of his element, knowing what he knows about him already...
It's different, this time. He knows, as his body knows, arousal rising slowly without even a trace of apprehensiveness. He holds out a hand, palm open. A suggestion. ]
Come here, please.
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Come here, please, Jean Louis asks and Claude moves across the floor in response, only the first step a jerk, the rest fluid, languid. He doesn't move hurriedly, but quickly enough not to keep the man waiting. He's asking so nicely, after all. Smiling, Claude comes to a halt only a couple of feet away, at the very end of Jean Louis' outstretched arm, his hand turned up, palm open. The lighter slip of skin where his watch usually resides sports a tattoo, not huge, but noticeable. A Roman numeral, one. Claude frowns, reaches up lightly and runs his fingers over it, halfway expecting Jean Louis to withdraw, though the touch itself is a request for permission. If he does withdraw, no is the answer and that's fine, too. That's fine.
Looking up at the other man, Claude realizes that the sudden proximity really isn't going to do him any favors in the arousal department. Up close, Jean Louis is all shade and darkness, he has a strong face, almost ridiculously intense features. Slap some makeup on him and he'd do well on stage in the right kind of roles. He hesitates another second, then he speaks, letting his fingers spread out over Jean Louis' wrist in perfect time. ]
Why the number one?
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There'd been an unrest in it, a sense of tearing apart. Something very raw and painful.
And now, with Claude looking at him with that smile of his, radiating warmth, his fingers slipping over the skin of his wrist and making his arm tingle all the way up the shoulder and neck, the contrast is, quite simply... fascinating. Such extremes in one, single man; no wonder he's been drawn to the stage, if nothing else, the stories certainly seem colourful enough to accommodate the span.
Why the number one, asks the man who made the audience roar. In a way, it's almost endearing, isn't it? He doesn't move his arm away or out of reach, choosing instead to run his other palm up the side of Claude's upper arm, fingers spreading out over his bare shoulder. Just resting there as he steps forward, voice gaining a certain amount of roughness; a note of something dark and expectant. Like this, he's close, close enough to almost feel the other man's breath against his face. ]
Why in the world not?
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Claude works in an environment that's focused on performance and perfection and on being number one always, he knows, of course, why it would be number one instead of number two or three, because number one is where you want to be, you want to be the best, the first... Politics are probably even worse, objectively speaking. If you're not number one, then you're not on the legislature. Your name goes unnoticed and influence passes you by. From what Claude gathers about Luxembourgian politics, Jean Louis is not in any danger of being overlooked. He's very loud and he's very clear and he's very popular. If nothing else, people love to hate him. Right now, Claude would just love to kiss him.
So he does. He leans in, breathes harshly, quickly and presses his lips to the other man's. It's an explosive kind of kiss, not aggressive, just overwhelming, mostly due to how overwhelmed Claude feels. Their lips slide across each other and Claude's tongue makes a polite attempt at asking, again, again, for permission to enter, running across the rather bulging expanse of lower lip that marks Jean Louis' face. Shit, he's so warm. He smells distinctive and heated in Claude's nostrils. It's so good. So good. ]
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When Claude leans in and kisses him, he's almost surprised, just slightly, by the intensity of it. Like he's rushing to make it happen, which - judging by the hardness of his cock, its contours visible between their bodies, probably isn't far from the truth. He takes a second to respond to the feel of his tongue, running along his bottom lip. It surprises him, this eagerness. Then again, with that kind of energy bundled up in every muscle, how could the younger man be any other way? His own fault, for being taken aback.
Usually, the feeling would take away from his own arousal, but for some reason, right now it doesn't really seem to matter much. His blood is definitely rushing south, his body warming up faster now and his cock growing steadfastly harder. And he's not even annoyed, just... well. Just eager to push them both onwards, regain his footing. It's as if Claude doesn't even notice that he lost it in the first place which is just plain absurd, and he pushes the thought away with no further interest. Taking Claude's initiative for what it clearly is, he parts his lips and lets him have this one, tiny, step towards the lead. He slips his hand backwards over the broad muscles of his shoulder, before running his fingers along the length of his spine, the muscles underneath the other man's heated skin working, moving, in time with his breathing. Yes, he's warm to the touch, warm and, for lack of better word, vibrant; as his fingers curve against the back of Claude's neck, he thinks about how easy he could snap it, one move, crack! Nothing but the echo of a falling body and then, silence.
It's a nice feeling. Not wanting to. ]
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Number one, Jean Louis has tattood on his wrist. Well, Claude knows the feeling, alright.
Jean Louis' hand moves from his upper arm around to his shoulder blade, over muscle and bone and draws lines to his spine which he follows up to the nape of Claude's neck, fingers taking hold in a way that's probably a bit too possessive, a bit too dominant for Claude's usual taste, but he lets it slip, because it feels so fucking good - the warmth of his palm, the strength in his fingers, fingertips digging in slightly on either side, shit, it's sending shivers down his spine, the exact way Jean Louis came from and it all comes together beautifully. Beautifully.
Letting a slight murmur slip into the kiss, he angles his head better, steps closer, that one step which brings them almost chest to chest, with just wriggle room enough for Claude to slide a hand up over Jean Louis' abdomen, from his navel and up over his chest, the coarseness of his chest hair tickling his skin in that familiar, welcome fashion that he really does love. He doesn't have a preference for men with hair, he just really appreciates the ones who do for what they've got. It's another way in which they appear to match up, look alike, even if it's only on a surface level. Claude flicks his tongue against the tip of Jean Louis', flattens his hand completely across a nipple and the nice definition of pecs. Someone really oughta tell him what this guy's up to in his spare time, it feels great.
This close he can feel the heat of Jean Louis' hardening cock against his lower abdomen, not to far from his own and his shifts on his feet slightly, not in an attempt to push closer, to push together, but because he's so damn eager, shit. He almost can't wait to touch it and when did Claude Bérubé last feel this way about sex with anyone?
Maybe the answer lies in the next questions. When did he even last have sex? ]
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So they're definitely in agreement, still.
When Claude runs his hand over his stomach and up, his warm touch leaving his skin feeling almost hyper-sensitive in its wake, his breathing quickens in response, the kiss turning shallow after a few seconds. As he flattens his palm over his nipple, Jean Louis breaks the kiss with a harsh exhalation, the spark of pleasure making him lose his focus momentarily. His hand tightens just a fraction against the back of the other man's neck, eyes narrowing. He's not angry, not even startled, just falling behind or so it seems - and that will never do.
Thus, he pulls back, managing not to break the contact between their bodies in the process, and looks towards the bed. Shifts backwards ever so slightly, though he doesn't actively try to pull or force the other man into following along. After all, with how this night's processing, he clearly doesn't have to. Under other circumstances - normal circumstances, he can't help but think - the thought would have been disappointing, perhaps enough to make him lose his drive. But Claude's not Lisette, he's not Electra (who never did get herself a proper burial with lilies and some ridiculous Coldplay number hammered out on the church organ - stupid bitch) and he's definitely not Daniel either. They're not waging a war tonight, the man's a pacifist if he ever saw one, and the only really surprising, astonishing part of if all is how it doesn't make him seem even the least bit weak. ]
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There's a weird discrepancy to Jean Louis like this, pulling him along without actively pulling and there's a moment where all Claude can think is demagogue, the seducer of the public, because all politicians are and from what he's been able to pick up on the Luxembourgian political stage, Jean Louis especially. It's not a thought he really holds on to, it's not particularly welcome right now, but the image remains at the back of his head, that he's now the public that Jean Louis Girard is seducing. That he's doing so very easily. Not that it matters, what matters is how Claude's cock is bumping lightly against the warm skin of Jean Louis' stomach, a gentle tap, tap, tap which makes his breath catch. All that matters is the intense look in Jean Louis eyes, mixed with an unusual calmness, the way it's so obvious that they want each other, that it's mutual, that they're equal. They're equal in wanting each other, now, here.
So he waits until the back of Jean Louis' legs meet the edge of the bed before he leans in again, leans up, because Jean Louis is still slightly taller than him, they're talking centimeters, and presses his mouth, open and heaving, against the side of the other man's neck. It's not a bite, but there's the definite scraping of teeth, the softness of lips, the wetness of tongue. All together now. His hand falls away from Jean Louis' chest, runs up to his shoulder, holds on for dear life. ]
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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. ]
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Even if he hasn't actively sought out sex for the past six - what, eight months, twelve? Shit, has it really been a full year? - he always leaves condoms in his bedside table's drawer, if nothing else, it's a principle. The drawer is located by the headboard behind Jean Louis' back and Claude frowns for a second, before rolling closer to the other man fluidly, avoiding with some luck not to knee him anywhere in the process. They're all aligned. Legs and chests and stomach and cocks. He swallows thickly, follows the outline of Jean Louis' facial features with his gaze for half a second, then leans in and kisses him again, slower to seek entrance this time. It's a matter of concentration. With his right arm he's reaching out, fumbling for the drawer and prying it open by sheer will power. It's easy enough, fishing out two pieces and leaving the drawer open to fend for itself while he returns his attention fully to Jean Louis, angling his head, their noses bumping in the process and it doesn't really matter, it feels good, to run his tongue across Jean Louis' bottom lip again. It's really quite devilishly shaped, huh?
To avoid any unnecessary fumbling, he finds Jean Louis' free hand with his own, lets his fingertips run across his palm lightly before dropping a condom into his open hand. Here, help a guy out, the gesture says. ]
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Though it shouldn't take a genius to figure out that Claude's clearly getting condoms, he hears it before he truly gets it; the sound of Claude's fingers, closing around the two wrappers, the rustling of plastic suddenly louder than the blood, rushing through his head. The feeling dissipates fast, it's nothing important, nothing worth noting, but right then - of course, he was prepared. Just in case. He breathes in slowly, Claude's scent bright and warm in the mix of oxygen and arousal. The feel of their noses bumping is amusing in its own right, yet another perfectly fitted piece, and he smiles slowly, his mood balancing out. He doesn't know how or why. It just does.
When Claude presses the condom into his hand, he knows exactly what he wants to do with it. Drawing back (and away from Claude's tongue tracing his lip - such a shame) enough to leave him room to move his hands, he tears the package open, draws out the condom and flicks the wrapper over one shoulder, into the darkness. Gaze seeking out Claude's, he looks at the other man through the shadows, follows the lines of his face, the curves of his lips and chin. He's having a hard time properly reading his expression but then again, this isn't exactly the moment for analytic thought, now is it. But he likes the softness of it over all, how they're basically just running now, the both of them, at a comfortable pace that feels neither too fast nor too sluggish. He reaches down between them, fingers trailing lightly over Claude's hard, well-trained stomach. Though he doesn't look like he works out solely for the sake of building muscle - unlike Marcel who's been building his body like others build castles or cathedrals for the past decades - he's definitely got a hard-earned body, doesn't he?
Seconds later, his fingers brush over the thick length of his cock. Taking hold of it by the base firmly, without hesitation, he rolls the condom down the other man's hard length, a quick and rather effortless gesture. All the same, it leaves him feeling curiously, indisputably breathless. ]
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Jean Louis rolls the condom on quickly and efficiently, another intermediary, and Claude waits with tension rising in every muscle. He wants to move, he wants to do, but he's patient, he can let the other man lead them onwards in his own time. As he hears Jean Louis' breath shake, collapse in on itself, though, he can't help it, he edges that last inch closer, pushes further into Jean Louis' grasp and reaches down between them, crossing paths with Jean Louis' arms only briefly while he unwraps his own condom, throws the wrapper aside and slowly, achingly slowly, lets his fingers find the outline of the other man's hard abdomen. His happy trail makes it an easy path to find, if he should for some reason feel uncertain about what direction he's going in at this point, laughable, but still, he follows the trail of hair down, fingers burning from the touch. Claude mutters something indistinct even to his own ears as his fingers finally make contact with the hard, hot shaft of Jean Louis' cock, the weight of it already distinctive against his palm as he moves his hand downward, takes hold around the base. Fuck, so hot, so... Rolling on the condom is an afterthought, something that he just needs to do, because Claude never has unprotected sex. He learned so much from Gilbert and this was one such thing. Never. Never.
The fact that Jean Louis didn't make a fuss of it, like some guys do... Well, maybe reasonable politicians do exist all across the spectrum. Claude tightens his grip just a tiny bit, turns his head and finds the other man's lips again, sucking that lower lip into his mouth, a definite feel of suction. Wetness and warmth. ]
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Though people might presume differently once they actually meet Marcel or figure out what he'll let them about his personality, their sex life isn't truly very adventurous. At least not the one they share (whatever he might be doing with that Italian skank of his, well, at this very moment, frankly, it doesn't matter). When Jean Louis fucks his women, it's the same story though the endings do tend to... vary. In any case, he's not quite sure what to expect from sleeping with men who aren't Marcel, seeing as he never does; as he runs his palm slowly up along the heavy length of Claude's shaft, he decides to take charge and just set a course, any course.
Eyes narrowing slightly in concentration, he pauses, palm lingering right beneath the head of Claude's cock, fingertips pressing in against the small ridge running along the underside. Rubbing it slowly with his thumb, up and down, his other fingers curved lightly over the shaft, he leans in the rest of the way and kisses him. This time, he doesn't wait for Claude to catch up with him - he presses his tongue against his lips, feeling the wetness of his mouth and wanting more because that's how it goes, isn't it? One good thing, drain it dry, go for the next, live. ]