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