[ Seated like this, he'd only have to inch sideways half a foot or so for their shoulders to touch. It's a comfortable sort of proximity, however, so he stays where he is, glancing sideways at Claude while he answers his question with his usual carefulness. There's nothing cryptic about it, no, but there's something quite tactful and pleasant about the way he chooses his words and for some reason, it makes it easier to simply accept them at face value.
At Claude's last words, however, he does pause. Watches him for a long moment, eyes narrowing very slightly. He can certainly understand being the better pick - after all, he's got plenty of money, plenty of power and decent enough looks to match - but gratefulness is an odd concept even at the best of times and in this particular context? Gaze searching the other man's face for a moment, he realises a bit belatedly that he doesn't know what to look for. ]
You had an opportunity and seized it. [ Spoken somewhat neutrally, his tone perhaps a bit too flat even by his standards. Hard to say why - doesn't matter, either. ] I suppose you could thank yourself for taking what's on offer but really, isn't it simply human nature?
[ It's a harsh response to a simple expression and he smiles very lightly, softening his voice with an effort. ]
It's good to know. That you're satisfied with our arrangement.
[ As always, speaking as a true liberal, Jean Louis wants to boil everything down to human nature. He'd say it was a matter of choice, if Claude were to question him about it - that choice is what human nature is all about, but in this particular context it's as much chance as it ever were. That the Foreign Minister would contact him, that the Foreign Minister would be interested in men at all, that they'd be compatible in the first place. All these things aren't Claude's choice, they just are. They're a condition for this little fairy tale of his to even play out at all. The way conditions shape so many things, Claude the Socialist knows. So rather than replying, he lets it slide, the myriad of implications and puts the glass aside, untouched for now, in order to lean back fully against the wall, the exposed bricks digging into his back through his knitted shirt as he rests his hands on either side of his spread knees. He's flaunting himself rather shamelessly this way. He hopes he's just what the other man is in the mood for. ]
I would be even more satisfied, if you got off your bum and kissed me.
[ It's said in a low voice, not tempting or seductive, just pleasantly subdued. He turns his face in Jean Louis' direction, meeting his eyes without hesitation. ]
[ So far, they've managed never to have any arguments worth noting and Claude's just demonstrated how, taking the edge out of the atmosphere with as much ease as you'd remove a splinter from your finger. A recognition of the fact that they already know how any potential discussion would pan out - they have completely opposite views on what constitutes "human nature" and essentially, this is probably the only thing they'd ever truly agree upon; that they don't. Which, really. Useless. He follows Claude with his gaze, as the other man leans back against the wall more fully, sitting cross-legged and showing himself off. Those tight-fitting jeans don't exactly hide much, do they?
Not that they should.
Smile turning sharper, he shifts and draws closer. For a second, he thinks about the Netherlands. About Amsterdam. It's nothing specific, just a moment, a touch-down, and then he twists towards the other man enough that he can lean into his personal space, one hand going straight for his dark curls, fingers running down the back of his head. ]
Tonight, you can ask for more than that.
[ Gaze dropping very slowly, very pointedly to Claude's lap - then, he curls his fingers into a light grip and leans in, kissing him. He takes a second or two before pressing his tongue against the other man's lips. Time to catch up, Claude. Be as quick about it as you like. ]
[ Jean Louis invades his personal space in a way he'd definitely have found creepy, if he hadn't invited it, but Claude did invite it and as such, it comes as a welcome breath of intimacy. The other man's hand finds its way into his hair, running down the back of his head and his curls, newly-washed, spring to life where Jean Louis' palm runs over them. Claude mumbles something unintelligible in pleasure, in pure enjoyment, though is cut short when Jean Louis speaks, his voice a dark rumble. The words make him feel momentarily light-headed, because these are implications he can definitely linger on and approve of. His eyes follow the drop of Jean Louis' gaze all the way until he's basically staring down into his own lap, still he's quick to look up again, when Jean Louis' fingers tighten in his hair, lightly, without taking liberties, and he leans in for the kiss Claude dared request. Because Jean Louis might be liberal and a politician and everything Claude's ready to revolt against on paper, but he isn't dangerous as far as he can tell and that's... really... all that matters. Their lips meet and it takes only a couple of heated seconds, before Jean Louis' tongue comes out, pressing in between his lips. Claude knows, well, by now that the other man is an expert kisser, giving in to one of his kisses is pretty much foreplay in its own right and it's not a difficult choice to make, this one. Not when the conditions are so obviously in his favor. A light hum and Claude parts his lips, letting Jean Louis' tongue slide inside. There's warmth and there's heat and there's wetness and he has to swallow thickly while he quickly unfolds his legs, stretches them out for balance, leverage, feet planted on the floor.
Besides, if Jean Louis is going to blow him later, he... might as well just spread them now, right? Shit. A groan and he's pushing his tongue up against the underside of the other man's. He tastes like red wine and a faint afterglow of cigarettes which is truly the best kind of second hand smoking you'll ever experience, if you ask him. ]
[ One second, two - and then, Claude parts his lips, unfolding his legs more or less simultaneously and isn't it amazing, how flexible he is? Marcel could possibly manage something similar, if only because of his extensive martial arts training, but he'd do so a lot less gracefully.
The other man's mouth is warm and wet, hints of wine and grapes lingering on his tongue. Jean Louis cocks his head slightly to give himself a better angle, breathing through his nose and taking his time. They can go fast, certainly, but with Claude, things are first and foremost devoid of chaos. Things progress. They gain or lose intensity. Black doesn't simply change into white, it's a gradual thing and the spectrum travels all the way across grey. The concept isn't novel for Jean Louis anymore and thus, he doesn't have to think about it too closely - like so many other aspects of this odd relationship, it just is.
Sliding more fully onto his knees against the settee, he manages to find a somewhat comfortable position, carrying most of his weight on one leg between Claude's, his other knee resting on the settee alongside his thigh. It's not an altogether perfect position; as opposed to Claude (and Marcel, for that matter), he spends most of his life in office settings. Accordingly, his level of flexibility lacks a bit in comparison. For now, however, it'll do.
Breathing into this kiss this time, stroking the tip of his tongue along the length of the other man's, he pushes his knee slowly, assertively upwards against the light bulge in his jeans. He takes care - after all, no normal man actively enjoys getting kneed in the crotch. He can feel the contours of Claude's cock through the stiff fabric and though he isn't queer enough to get a hard-on from it, the implications do make him feel heated. Then again, he does so enjoy being in charge. ]
[ There's a moment of complete calm between them in which Jean Louis positions himself as he likes, one leg coming to a rest between Claude's two and the other running in parallels next to Claude's thigh. During this pause, Claude can feel Jean Louis' breath in his mouth, a heavy exhalation that comes with the evident taste of smoke and a sharper hint of toothpaste, grapes and more wine. It's intoxicating. It's masculine and it's personal and Claude is halfway gasping in response. Jean Louis' taste is so specific to him that although Claude remembers having kissed both Gilbert and Rainier after having drunk wine, the here and now differs. Down to the way his mind catches up with the memories, his two former boyfriends slipping into the shadows in the background, becoming unimportant for the time being. Besides, Jean Louis is never more sexy than when he gets all assertive and takes charge. Dominance, in its lighter forms, has always attracted Claude, hell, he wouldn't be a ballet dancer, if he didn't like being told what to do, how to do it, for how long, how far...
Then, Jean Louis presses his knee carefully up against Claude's crotch, but still with enough pressure that it registers, that he can feel it. How his cock is getting rubbed through the tight fabric of his jeans. Breaking away from the kiss, Claude is definitely gasping now, open-mouthed and panting loudly. His hands come up to balance himself against Jean Louis' shoulders, fingers spreading out over his shoulder blades and upper back. The fabric of his long-sleeved t-shirt only emphasizes the heat of his body.
He isn't eighteen anymore, is Claude, the motion itself isn't enough to give him a hard-on, but the atmosphere of it, of how Jean Louis is determined to make him feel something, something good, something that he can enjoy definitely adds to the motion in itself and Claude can tell he's getting decently half-hard just through the first stroke of touch. With Jean Louis, it doesn't surprise him. Isn't he a man who causes strong, strong reactions in people? Shouldn't he be?
So shouldn't Claude react accordingly? His body certainly agrees with the idea. ]
[ He's such a grateful man, is Claude. Not just sexually, though he isn't a hard or difficult man to please by any means - but personally, rather. As if at his very core, he expects to be treated a lot worse than someone with his pleasant demeanor should. Sadly, the rules of the world are simple; you get what you take and if you're too nice to take anything, someone else will do it for you. Jean Louis knows the background details concerning Claude's life, back in France. He knows why Claude's so glad to feel gifted. To have someone insist upon it, too. You are worth this much.
He'd say it was a weakness but Claude's hardly weak at all. He's been preyed upon, yes - the rule of the game. Humans fight to stay at the top of the food chain and sometimes, they fail. That's just how it goes.
Breaking away from the kiss, he takes a second to catch his breath. He presses his knee up against the gradually-growing bulge in Claude's jeans again, a shorter stroke this time, before shifting away. He doesn't disturb Claude's hands against his shoulders, leaving him to hold on as he so pleases. Freeing his hand from his hair, the warmth of it still lingering on his fingertips, he runs his palms down Claude's front, feeling the contours of hard muscle underneath clearly. Rock-hard, this man, beneath his soft exterior and really, what sort of idiot could get this so wrong? He may have fled like a rabbit but come now - he could bite if he wanted to, he just doesn't, and that's the crux of it, isn't it? ]
Take it off.
[ His voice sounds rough around the edges already. Shifting back enough to leave the other man room to act, he feels his eyes narrow further at the sight of him, sitting propped up against the wall, spread-legged and looking more than ready to be debauched. He's a predator too, Jean Louis, and he feels it clearly around Claude when they're in bed together. It's power, his alone, quivering between them, undisclosed. He doesn't have to use it - really, what a fucking failure that would be - it's enough to know. That if he wanted to, he could force the rabbit to become a wolf and leave him snarling amongst the shadows again. And just like Claude, he doesn't. ]
[ It's such an automatic response at this point - when he gets corrected in class, he either whispers a low yes and changes positions or he says nothing and does the same. It's about showing responsiveness, respect, willingness to do and do over and do over again. When Jean Louis tells him to take off his shirt in that hoarse-edged voice of his, all want and will, Claude reacts like he would to his ballet master, though, God knows, Benny and he wouldn't end in bed together like this. Ever. Heidi would flay him alive, if she found out, after all - and Claude has learned to fear a scorned woman, he's seen enough of them on his way here. There is no such thing as an angry feminist, but there's certainly such a thing as an angry woman.
Pushing the train of thought aside swiftly, Claude slips his hands down from their rest on the other man's shoulder, reaches down to grasp the hem of his shirt and halfway hurls it over his head, baring himself in one swift movement of fabric against skin. They look a lot alike, Jean Louis and he - they're relatively hairy men, short and muscular, although their muscles bulk very differently. Beneath his long-sleeved t-shirt, Jean Louis is all leanness and elongation, whereas Claude... Well, he is more mass, more roundness. It's actually very fitting, isn't it?
He drops the shirt on the floor next to the settee, doesn't really care where it lands. Jean Louis might, but right now Claude imagines those cares don't count for much. He's not the only one short of breath. Probably not the only one feeling all hot and bothered around the general crotch area, either. Even if he's learned by now that Jean Louis takes longer to heat up properly. It's okay, they have time. They've got plenty of time, unless Marcel happens to get home earlier than planned, now wouldn't that be a party...
Returning his hands to Jean Louis' shoulders, Claude breathes long, hard inhalations through his nose, trying to temper himself a bit while he drops his hands slowly down the other man's front, feeling the outline of nipples and the definition of muscle underneath. Fuck, so hot. He finds his voice somewhere in the overwhelming heat of their contact. ]
You're not gonna make me feel too lonely for too long, are you?
[ Claude drops his shirt and Jean Louis follows the movement of the fabric, the quick baring of heated, naked skin. In many ways, he and Claude look like they've started out from similar molds, though time and choices have left them with distinctively different end results. He can certainly recognise that Claude's a good-looking man, being neither blind nor stupid - he's got incredibly symmetrical proportions, almost to an inhuman degree, and there's a smoothness to his skin that speaks of healthy living. Taking care of what you have. Gaze gliding from the hard, pronounced six-pack muscletone of his stomach to the flatness of his chest, the slight bulge of muscle emphasising every line, he takes his sweet time before answering. Around Claude, he's forever the spectator. ]
Of course not.
[ He hears the unspoken command in those words, sugar-coated in question marks and sweet-talking. It's hard not to appreciate it - that Claude continually chooses to maintain this dynamic, this place where they're both so wonderfully balanced. Conflict-free. Jean Louis has always been the cause of conflict, rather than anything else; war makes the world change, is wholly necessary to avoid stagnation, but afterwards - afterwards, there must be a period of peace, yes? For things to settle before the next, big thing. It's... interesting, getting a taste of that. Nice, for want of a better word.
Smiling lightly, perhaps even with a hint of warmth, he takes his shirt off and drops it on the floor somewhere amidst the shadows. He'll fix the mess tomorrow. Marcel won't be home before midday anyway. The thought makes something tighten in his stomach, only briefly, but he feels it anyway; a gut reaction that he doesn't need anymore, and his smile stiffens into something more neutral, as he turns back to Claude. The air's cool, it's fine. They're here, now. And he's not alone. It's irrelevant.
Blinking, he takes a deep breath. Closes the distance between them once more, leaning in close and supporting himself with one arm behind Claude's head against the exposed bricks. Craning his neck, he runs his lips lightly over the skin of Claude's shoulder and upwards, across the lines of collarbone and neck, until he can feel the pulse of his blood, pumping away beneath his mouth. With his other hand, he reaches down and gets to work on Claude's jeans, quick but firm movements, starting with the belt buckle. ]
[ Before Jean Louis leans in and presses open-mouthed, hard-breathing kisses against his shoulder, Claude catches a great view of chest - a dark spread of hair, the two dark circles forming his nipples, the dark hue to his skin. With Jean Louis, everything is in tones of dusk and darkness and although it's probably symbolic in some way, Claude likes it. He likes the nuances it creates, the depths. Jean Louis might seem very flat and two-dimensional on the surface, but it's all image and self-preservation techniques. Beneath that stone mask, marble, what else, he's all ocean. All-devouring and dangerous, if you're not careful, but also... Claude can tell... quite beautiful.
Taking a deep breath, he cranes his head to one side to give the other man room to touch. His lips are heavenly, to be quite frank, the softness and the roundness and the light addition of spit and breath... Swallowing thickly, Claude reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, perfectly styled as always and he's definitely going to ruin that now, but he's sure the other man will forgive him. Jean Louis' hands are busy with his belt, opening it quickly and efficiently, the movement of fingers and palm over his lower abdomen making all his muscles tense up in anticipation. Claude breathes in again, breathes out. ]
Here, let me - [ Multitasking quite effortlessly, Claude drops his free hand to the hem of his trousers, hooks his thumb in the fabric and waits for Jean Louis to zip him down before he starts pushing in earnest. ] - help...
[ At the edge of his mind, it occurs to him that in the same way that he has learned to do his movements over when he gets them wrong, hooking up with Jean Louis like this is actually the same thing. He's gotten his entire definition of a relationship wrong, since Rainier fucked it up so badly and this is the healing process, this, no strings attached, just roll with it, feel it, allow yourself... this.
For some reason, the thought only makes him harder. For Jean Louis. Like this. Right now. Licking his lips, he looks down to watch the other man open him up, literally so. ]
[ Claude runs his fingers through his hair, and for a moment he simply leans into the touch, ignoring all thoughts of ruined hairstyles and messy strands. There's a time and a place for vanity, specifically whenever he needs people to stare themselves blind without actually seeing anything of importance in the process. Even in bed, it can be useful - but here, now, with Claude, there's... breathing room. And thus, he breathes. In and out. Lets the slight touch of fingers steal away at his senses for a few seconds before getting back to work on the other man's trousers.
The sound of the zipper going down is brief but almost harsh in the quiet around them. He lets his gaze slide downwards, over Claude's naked upper body and stomach to the lines of his underwear. True to form, the other man's wearing briefs - that in itself makes for an interesting sight, considering the size of his cock. But naturally, Claude the Performer must up the ante in this regard, thus choosing a pair of pastel pink briefs with a broad, white hem. They look like something he's picked up from a Barbie commercial. A very grown-up Barbie commercial.
With a slow smile, he lets Claude push the trousers down and pulls back, lips wet and tingling, the taste of salt and Ralph Lauren cologne lingering on his tongue. There's something distinctively Claude as well, in the mix. He'll have that amplified soon enough, won't he? Shuffling backwards on his knees, doing his very best not to get their legs entangled, he flattens his palms over the broad expanses of Claude's upper-thighs, feeling the muscles quiver underneath. Then, he pulls the jeans down, pushing them over his knees (rolling them off, more or less, dear God, it's like peeling off a second skin layer), before kneeling on the floor between his legs.
From his position, he's got a very proper view of Claude's more-than-halfway-there erection, leaving his briefs looking quite strained and overworked. Well. Patience is a virtue, they say. ]
I normally hate jeans. [ Spoken casually, conversationally, though there's a hint of breathiness in his voice that gives him away and really, anything else would probably seem strange at this point. Hands working as efficiently as always, he rolls the fabric over Claude's shins, down towards his ankles, palms sliding over his exposed skin in the process. Even in terms of body hair, they're alike - Claude's muscles, on the other hand, are very different from his, not as elongated and stronger, too. ] But these, I somehow like. Do wear them more often.
[ With that, he pulls them off Claude's feet (ballet dancer feet, they say, but there's really nothing particularly wrong with them that he can see) and dumps them on the floor somewhere off to the side. Gone, out of sight. ]
[ Jean Louis relocates himself to the floor in a flurry of lingering palm against Claude's naked thighs, his naked shins, his naked feet and he's being rather elegant about it, too. Hearing himself breathe out in a huff of laughter at the other man's comment, Claude helps with pulling his feet out of the jeans as he best can, though Jean Louis is really doing most of the work, here. Claude won't be rude and take credit for something he's pretty much just leaning back and enjoying, his hard-on definitely getting more pronounced at the sight of Jean Louis on his knees between his legs. Shit, how many people even get to see that? Marcel, obviously, but besides his life partner, Claude has a lingering suspicion than Jean Louis Girard in general isn't the blowjob giving type. Maybe he likes to eat pussy, who knows, it's just a thought, but Claude nurses a pretty good perceptiveness around other people, it's something that he prides himself of. Not that it matters. Not that it matters at all. Right now, the country's Foreign Minister is just sitting there on his knees before him and no biggie, right? No fucking biggie.
If Claude weren't so used to performing, he might get a bit of stage fright right about now.
Shifting a bit on his bum, he pushes his pelvis upwards, showing himself off well and good. At this point, he's horny enough that he wouldn't mind embarrassing himself a little to get Jean Louis to move closer, to suck it up, but he doesn't, of course. Instead he settles down against the couch after a moment, finding a more comfortable position against the bared wall. He's not a masochist - or well, perhaps he is, a little, aren't all ballet dancers? - but there's something to the way the bricks eat into the skin on his back in contrast to the burning heat between his legs... It's good. It works. And Jean Louis, bare-chested, out of breath and slightly disheveled, is undoubtedly adding to it as well. ]
Just for you, Jean Louis.
[ A smile that reaches his eyes. There are a lot of things he's doing for Jean Louis alone as it is, putting on a pair of pants is really the least of it. If he can live with being the booty call, if he can live with being the other (wo)man, if he can live with the secrecy and the long periods of almost complete silence, he can definitely roll on these jeans again some day. Just for Jean Louis Girard.
It doesn't seem too bad, if he's honest. He likes it. How it doesn't demand anything of him, how Jean Louis doesn't... The smile dampens a little and he shifts again, more uneasily this time. ]
You're not done helping me out, are you? I could need a hand.
[ Just for you, he says and puts himself completely on display, pushing his pelvis upwards and making it very obvious that yes, indeed, he's in need of a hand. Or whatever else. For a moment, Jean Louis just watches him from his position between his legs, the way he pushes back against the wall, muscles working to accommodate the slight change in position on the settee. When you've seen Claude on stage, the very definition of bodily control, from the way he jumps to his spins and his acting - it's actually rather endearing to have him like this. Just a man, trying to get comfortable. It's a privilege, he thinks, to a certain extent. Means it's worth something.
In that regard, once again, they're a bit alike. Parliament, after all, is a stage as well.
Breathing out, he runs his hands slowly up Claude's legs again, fingers splayed out against his inner thighs this time, fingertips brushing against the hem of his briefs. His cock looks very much in need of attention, the cotton pulled tight around its hardness. Brow furrowing slightly, he presses his palm flatly against the bulge, feeling the contours clearly underneath - shaft, head, balls further down. He's hot, is Claude - heated - and it goes straight into Jean Louis' bloodstream, translates itself into a language that's by and large universal. His body certainly recognises it well enough. Feeling a sudden rush of impatience, he reaches up and pulls the hem over and down. Claude's briefs come off a lot easier than his jeans, thank God, or he'd have to start pulling at them for real, and who knows what would happen if he ruined them? He might just owe the other man another pair and then, he'd have to find a way to buy them without actively buying a pair of pink cotton briefs... complicated.
Like this, though, he's got a naked Claude Bérubé sitting sprawled on his settee and the night's definitely looking up. He doesn't have to feel or think about that constant undercurrent of unease, lingering behind in Marcel's absence, the thought that the other man's off to Amsterdam (by himself, alone, he's alone, too). Instead, they can drown themselves, he and Claude, and Claude's free to forget as well, isn't he? Whatever it is that he's longing for; because surely, it isn't this, this is simply convenient and that's fine, too. Once again - human nature. ]
I should probably help you with that as well, don't you think?
[ His tone sounds hoarser now, like the heat from Claude's body's settled somewhere around his vocal chords - in a few minutes, it won't be too far from the truth, either. Smile gone, replaced by a look of intense concentration, he folds his hand around the length of Claude's hard cock, a light grip, just a beginning. Pulling slowly up and down, his grip too dry still to make any real impact, he reaches into his pocket with the other, fishing out a condom like an afterthought. Gone are the days of unprotected sex - that was him and Marcel, only, back when they were still getting settled.]
[ Yes, he thinks, almost tangibly so, yes, you should.
Jean Louis' touch evolves so gradually and yet so quickly that Claude finds it difficult to follow. His hands on Claude's legs, sliding upwards across his inner thighs, splaying out... Then one hand coming up to cup his cock through his briefs, the feeling of pressure and heat making Claude blank out momentarily... Then he pulls off the briefs entirely, removes the last layer of non-sexuality between his fingers and Claude's hard cock and Claude follows the entire evolution with his eyes, gaze fixed on the broad expanses of Jean Louis' hands. They're big, not out of proportion and wouldn't Claude be the first to tell, but as massive as the other man's shoulders, as his ego, as his stubborn head. Shit. Claude breathes in harshly as fingers finally close around the base of his cock, keeping him steady, keeping him in place while Jean Louis fishes out a condom.
He has always, from the very beginning, appreciated that Jean Louis doesn't count among the men who find it difficult to understand the importance of safe sex. Even if they haven't yet done anal - and Claude has a lingering suspicion that they'll never get to that point, it's not for them and it's fine - they've still used condoms every single time. Not once has Claude had to talk the other man into using protection, he hasn't had to explain to him how it matters even more than normally, because Jean Louis is having a stable, undoubtedly sexual relationship with someone else. All of that is self-explanatory between them and Claude kind of loves that aspect of him. Since Gilbert, it has been essential, using condoms. Since Rainier, it has been essential not having to fight for his own basic rights.
So, he whimpers a little and flexes his hips upwards once, before Jean Louis begins rolling on the condom. There's the sense of rubber and coolness, but it's only for a moment, until the latex sucks up his body heat - and God knows, he's warm, he's so damn hot, he's dying right now. ]
Please. [ It's a half-whisper, not a plea. Little pearling drops of sweat have gathered along his collarbone and in his chest hair. He needs Jean Louis to do something, quickly. Now, preferably. He's shaking from it. From wanting. ] Shit, Jean Louis. Please.
[ He's pleading for it, his little ballet dancer, and the words go straight to his cock. Shifting, he ignores the way his trousers tighten, deciding that it doesn't matter. He'll get his turn, naturally, as things always go between the two of them, back and forth. Balance. Instead, he focuses his attention on the hard cock between his fingers, the condom providing a thin, sleek barrier - he doesn't mind it, though the taste of rubber isn't particularly endearing. Being sexually irresponsible really has no advantages whatsoever, unless you desperately enjoy the average STD.
Claude's got a very big cock. It's nicely shaped, very much like the rest of his body, but it's also a very interesting challenge to blow. One's throat doesn't much appreciate neither girth nor length, does it? But he's used to Marcel who's larger still (you'd be hard-pressed to find someone larger, unless you went scouting amongst elephants on the African savannah) and really, the strain of forcing your jaw to cooperate pales in comparison with the reaction that follows. Blowing a man is a bit like sucking his brains out; in that aspect, it's satisfying in its own right. Even if cock isn't necessarily his greatest turn-on when it comes to oral sex.
Please, he says, and Jean Louis watches him squirm for another couple of seconds before leaning in over Claude's lap, parting his lips and sucking the head of his cock into his mouth. Relaxing his jaws, he keeps his lips folded over his teeth, making certain not to accidentally tear the condom or, indeed, the cock as it slides further into his mouth, along the width of his tongue. He takes it slow, mostly for his own sake - besides, they have time, don't they? They have time. Breathing shakily through his nose, he keeps his hand locked around the base of the shaft. Keeps still for a few, outdrawn seconds before drawing back slowly. ]
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At Claude's last words, however, he does pause. Watches him for a long moment, eyes narrowing very slightly. He can certainly understand being the better pick - after all, he's got plenty of money, plenty of power and decent enough looks to match - but gratefulness is an odd concept even at the best of times and in this particular context? Gaze searching the other man's face for a moment, he realises a bit belatedly that he doesn't know what to look for. ]
You had an opportunity and seized it. [ Spoken somewhat neutrally, his tone perhaps a bit too flat even by his standards. Hard to say why - doesn't matter, either. ] I suppose you could thank yourself for taking what's on offer but really, isn't it simply human nature?
[ It's a harsh response to a simple expression and he smiles very lightly, softening his voice with an effort. ]
It's good to know. That you're satisfied with our arrangement.
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I would be even more satisfied, if you got off your bum and kissed me.
[ It's said in a low voice, not tempting or seductive, just pleasantly subdued. He turns his face in Jean Louis' direction, meeting his eyes without hesitation. ]
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Not that they should.
Smile turning sharper, he shifts and draws closer. For a second, he thinks about the Netherlands. About Amsterdam. It's nothing specific, just a moment, a touch-down, and then he twists towards the other man enough that he can lean into his personal space, one hand going straight for his dark curls, fingers running down the back of his head. ]
Tonight, you can ask for more than that.
[ Gaze dropping very slowly, very pointedly to Claude's lap - then, he curls his fingers into a light grip and leans in, kissing him. He takes a second or two before pressing his tongue against the other man's lips. Time to catch up, Claude. Be as quick about it as you like. ]
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Besides, if Jean Louis is going to blow him later, he... might as well just spread them now, right? Shit. A groan and he's pushing his tongue up against the underside of the other man's. He tastes like red wine and a faint afterglow of cigarettes which is truly the best kind of second hand smoking you'll ever experience, if you ask him. ]
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The other man's mouth is warm and wet, hints of wine and grapes lingering on his tongue. Jean Louis cocks his head slightly to give himself a better angle, breathing through his nose and taking his time. They can go fast, certainly, but with Claude, things are first and foremost devoid of chaos. Things progress. They gain or lose intensity. Black doesn't simply change into white, it's a gradual thing and the spectrum travels all the way across grey. The concept isn't novel for Jean Louis anymore and thus, he doesn't have to think about it too closely - like so many other aspects of this odd relationship, it just is.
Sliding more fully onto his knees against the settee, he manages to find a somewhat comfortable position, carrying most of his weight on one leg between Claude's, his other knee resting on the settee alongside his thigh. It's not an altogether perfect position; as opposed to Claude (and Marcel, for that matter), he spends most of his life in office settings. Accordingly, his level of flexibility lacks a bit in comparison. For now, however, it'll do.
Breathing into this kiss this time, stroking the tip of his tongue along the length of the other man's, he pushes his knee slowly, assertively upwards against the light bulge in his jeans. He takes care - after all, no normal man actively enjoys getting kneed in the crotch. He can feel the contours of Claude's cock through the stiff fabric and though he isn't queer enough to get a hard-on from it, the implications do make him feel heated. Then again, he does so enjoy being in charge. ]
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Then, Jean Louis presses his knee carefully up against Claude's crotch, but still with enough pressure that it registers, that he can feel it. How his cock is getting rubbed through the tight fabric of his jeans. Breaking away from the kiss, Claude is definitely gasping now, open-mouthed and panting loudly. His hands come up to balance himself against Jean Louis' shoulders, fingers spreading out over his shoulder blades and upper back. The fabric of his long-sleeved t-shirt only emphasizes the heat of his body.
He isn't eighteen anymore, is Claude, the motion itself isn't enough to give him a hard-on, but the atmosphere of it, of how Jean Louis is determined to make him feel something, something good, something that he can enjoy definitely adds to the motion in itself and Claude can tell he's getting decently half-hard just through the first stroke of touch. With Jean Louis, it doesn't surprise him. Isn't he a man who causes strong, strong reactions in people? Shouldn't he be?
So shouldn't Claude react accordingly? His body certainly agrees with the idea. ]
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He'd say it was a weakness but Claude's hardly weak at all. He's been preyed upon, yes - the rule of the game. Humans fight to stay at the top of the food chain and sometimes, they fail. That's just how it goes.
Breaking away from the kiss, he takes a second to catch his breath. He presses his knee up against the gradually-growing bulge in Claude's jeans again, a shorter stroke this time, before shifting away. He doesn't disturb Claude's hands against his shoulders, leaving him to hold on as he so pleases. Freeing his hand from his hair, the warmth of it still lingering on his fingertips, he runs his palms down Claude's front, feeling the contours of hard muscle underneath clearly. Rock-hard, this man, beneath his soft exterior and really, what sort of idiot could get this so wrong? He may have fled like a rabbit but come now - he could bite if he wanted to, he just doesn't, and that's the crux of it, isn't it? ]
Take it off.
[ His voice sounds rough around the edges already. Shifting back enough to leave the other man room to act, he feels his eyes narrow further at the sight of him, sitting propped up against the wall, spread-legged and looking more than ready to be debauched. He's a predator too, Jean Louis, and he feels it clearly around Claude when they're in bed together. It's power, his alone, quivering between them, undisclosed. He doesn't have to use it - really, what a fucking failure that would be - it's enough to know. That if he wanted to, he could force the rabbit to become a wolf and leave him snarling amongst the shadows again. And just like Claude, he doesn't. ]
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[ It's such an automatic response at this point - when he gets corrected in class, he either whispers a low yes and changes positions or he says nothing and does the same. It's about showing responsiveness, respect, willingness to do and do over and do over again. When Jean Louis tells him to take off his shirt in that hoarse-edged voice of his, all want and will, Claude reacts like he would to his ballet master, though, God knows, Benny and he wouldn't end in bed together like this. Ever. Heidi would flay him alive, if she found out, after all - and Claude has learned to fear a scorned woman, he's seen enough of them on his way here. There is no such thing as an angry feminist, but there's certainly such a thing as an angry woman.
Pushing the train of thought aside swiftly, Claude slips his hands down from their rest on the other man's shoulder, reaches down to grasp the hem of his shirt and halfway hurls it over his head, baring himself in one swift movement of fabric against skin. They look a lot alike, Jean Louis and he - they're relatively hairy men, short and muscular, although their muscles bulk very differently. Beneath his long-sleeved t-shirt, Jean Louis is all leanness and elongation, whereas Claude... Well, he is more mass, more roundness. It's actually very fitting, isn't it?
He drops the shirt on the floor next to the settee, doesn't really care where it lands. Jean Louis might, but right now Claude imagines those cares don't count for much. He's not the only one short of breath. Probably not the only one feeling all hot and bothered around the general crotch area, either. Even if he's learned by now that Jean Louis takes longer to heat up properly. It's okay, they have time. They've got plenty of time, unless Marcel happens to get home earlier than planned, now wouldn't that be a party...
Returning his hands to Jean Louis' shoulders, Claude breathes long, hard inhalations through his nose, trying to temper himself a bit while he drops his hands slowly down the other man's front, feeling the outline of nipples and the definition of muscle underneath. Fuck, so hot. He finds his voice somewhere in the overwhelming heat of their contact. ]
You're not gonna make me feel too lonely for too long, are you?
[ Meaning: You take it off. ]
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Of course not.
[ He hears the unspoken command in those words, sugar-coated in question marks and sweet-talking. It's hard not to appreciate it - that Claude continually chooses to maintain this dynamic, this place where they're both so wonderfully balanced. Conflict-free. Jean Louis has always been the cause of conflict, rather than anything else; war makes the world change, is wholly necessary to avoid stagnation, but afterwards - afterwards, there must be a period of peace, yes? For things to settle before the next, big thing. It's... interesting, getting a taste of that. Nice, for want of a better word.
Smiling lightly, perhaps even with a hint of warmth, he takes his shirt off and drops it on the floor somewhere amidst the shadows. He'll fix the mess tomorrow. Marcel won't be home before midday anyway. The thought makes something tighten in his stomach, only briefly, but he feels it anyway; a gut reaction that he doesn't need anymore, and his smile stiffens into something more neutral, as he turns back to Claude. The air's cool, it's fine. They're here, now. And he's not alone. It's irrelevant.
Blinking, he takes a deep breath. Closes the distance between them once more, leaning in close and supporting himself with one arm behind Claude's head against the exposed bricks. Craning his neck, he runs his lips lightly over the skin of Claude's shoulder and upwards, across the lines of collarbone and neck, until he can feel the pulse of his blood, pumping away beneath his mouth. With his other hand, he reaches down and gets to work on Claude's jeans, quick but firm movements, starting with the belt buckle. ]
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Taking a deep breath, he cranes his head to one side to give the other man room to touch. His lips are heavenly, to be quite frank, the softness and the roundness and the light addition of spit and breath... Swallowing thickly, Claude reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, perfectly styled as always and he's definitely going to ruin that now, but he's sure the other man will forgive him. Jean Louis' hands are busy with his belt, opening it quickly and efficiently, the movement of fingers and palm over his lower abdomen making all his muscles tense up in anticipation. Claude breathes in again, breathes out. ]
Here, let me - [ Multitasking quite effortlessly, Claude drops his free hand to the hem of his trousers, hooks his thumb in the fabric and waits for Jean Louis to zip him down before he starts pushing in earnest. ] - help...
[ At the edge of his mind, it occurs to him that in the same way that he has learned to do his movements over when he gets them wrong, hooking up with Jean Louis like this is actually the same thing. He's gotten his entire definition of a relationship wrong, since Rainier fucked it up so badly and this is the healing process, this, no strings attached, just roll with it, feel it, allow yourself... this.
For some reason, the thought only makes him harder. For Jean Louis. Like this. Right now. Licking his lips, he looks down to watch the other man open him up, literally so. ]
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The sound of the zipper going down is brief but almost harsh in the quiet around them. He lets his gaze slide downwards, over Claude's naked upper body and stomach to the lines of his underwear. True to form, the other man's wearing briefs - that in itself makes for an interesting sight, considering the size of his cock. But naturally, Claude the Performer must up the ante in this regard, thus choosing a pair of pastel pink briefs with a broad, white hem. They look like something he's picked up from a Barbie commercial. A very grown-up Barbie commercial.
With a slow smile, he lets Claude push the trousers down and pulls back, lips wet and tingling, the taste of salt and Ralph Lauren cologne lingering on his tongue. There's something distinctively Claude as well, in the mix. He'll have that amplified soon enough, won't he? Shuffling backwards on his knees, doing his very best not to get their legs entangled, he flattens his palms over the broad expanses of Claude's upper-thighs, feeling the muscles quiver underneath. Then, he pulls the jeans down, pushing them over his knees (rolling them off, more or less, dear God, it's like peeling off a second skin layer), before kneeling on the floor between his legs.
From his position, he's got a very proper view of Claude's more-than-halfway-there erection, leaving his briefs looking quite strained and overworked. Well. Patience is a virtue, they say. ]
I normally hate jeans. [ Spoken casually, conversationally, though there's a hint of breathiness in his voice that gives him away and really, anything else would probably seem strange at this point. Hands working as efficiently as always, he rolls the fabric over Claude's shins, down towards his ankles, palms sliding over his exposed skin in the process. Even in terms of body hair, they're alike - Claude's muscles, on the other hand, are very different from his, not as elongated and stronger, too. ] But these, I somehow like. Do wear them more often.
[ With that, he pulls them off Claude's feet (ballet dancer feet, they say, but there's really nothing particularly wrong with them that he can see) and dumps them on the floor somewhere off to the side. Gone, out of sight. ]
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If Claude weren't so used to performing, he might get a bit of stage fright right about now.
Shifting a bit on his bum, he pushes his pelvis upwards, showing himself off well and good. At this point, he's horny enough that he wouldn't mind embarrassing himself a little to get Jean Louis to move closer, to suck it up, but he doesn't, of course. Instead he settles down against the couch after a moment, finding a more comfortable position against the bared wall. He's not a masochist - or well, perhaps he is, a little, aren't all ballet dancers? - but there's something to the way the bricks eat into the skin on his back in contrast to the burning heat between his legs... It's good. It works. And Jean Louis, bare-chested, out of breath and slightly disheveled, is undoubtedly adding to it as well. ]
Just for you, Jean Louis.
[ A smile that reaches his eyes. There are a lot of things he's doing for Jean Louis alone as it is, putting on a pair of pants is really the least of it. If he can live with being the booty call, if he can live with being the other (wo)man, if he can live with the secrecy and the long periods of almost complete silence, he can definitely roll on these jeans again some day. Just for Jean Louis Girard.
It doesn't seem too bad, if he's honest. He likes it. How it doesn't demand anything of him, how Jean Louis doesn't... The smile dampens a little and he shifts again, more uneasily this time. ]
You're not done helping me out, are you? I could need a hand.
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In that regard, once again, they're a bit alike. Parliament, after all, is a stage as well.
Breathing out, he runs his hands slowly up Claude's legs again, fingers splayed out against his inner thighs this time, fingertips brushing against the hem of his briefs. His cock looks very much in need of attention, the cotton pulled tight around its hardness. Brow furrowing slightly, he presses his palm flatly against the bulge, feeling the contours clearly underneath - shaft, head, balls further down. He's hot, is Claude - heated - and it goes straight into Jean Louis' bloodstream, translates itself into a language that's by and large universal. His body certainly recognises it well enough. Feeling a sudden rush of impatience, he reaches up and pulls the hem over and down. Claude's briefs come off a lot easier than his jeans, thank God, or he'd have to start pulling at them for real, and who knows what would happen if he ruined them? He might just owe the other man another pair and then, he'd have to find a way to buy them without actively buying a pair of pink cotton briefs... complicated.
Like this, though, he's got a naked Claude Bérubé sitting sprawled on his settee and the night's definitely looking up. He doesn't have to feel or think about that constant undercurrent of unease, lingering behind in Marcel's absence, the thought that the other man's off to Amsterdam (by himself, alone, he's alone, too). Instead, they can drown themselves, he and Claude, and Claude's free to forget as well, isn't he? Whatever it is that he's longing for; because surely, it isn't this, this is simply convenient and that's fine, too. Once again - human nature. ]
I should probably help you with that as well, don't you think?
[ His tone sounds hoarser now, like the heat from Claude's body's settled somewhere around his vocal chords - in a few minutes, it won't be too far from the truth, either. Smile gone, replaced by a look of intense concentration, he folds his hand around the length of Claude's hard cock, a light grip, just a beginning. Pulling slowly up and down, his grip too dry still to make any real impact, he reaches into his pocket with the other, fishing out a condom like an afterthought. Gone are the days of unprotected sex - that was him and Marcel, only, back when they were still getting settled.]
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Jean Louis' touch evolves so gradually and yet so quickly that Claude finds it difficult to follow. His hands on Claude's legs, sliding upwards across his inner thighs, splaying out... Then one hand coming up to cup his cock through his briefs, the feeling of pressure and heat making Claude blank out momentarily... Then he pulls off the briefs entirely, removes the last layer of non-sexuality between his fingers and Claude's hard cock and Claude follows the entire evolution with his eyes, gaze fixed on the broad expanses of Jean Louis' hands. They're big, not out of proportion and wouldn't Claude be the first to tell, but as massive as the other man's shoulders, as his ego, as his stubborn head. Shit. Claude breathes in harshly as fingers finally close around the base of his cock, keeping him steady, keeping him in place while Jean Louis fishes out a condom.
He has always, from the very beginning, appreciated that Jean Louis doesn't count among the men who find it difficult to understand the importance of safe sex. Even if they haven't yet done anal - and Claude has a lingering suspicion that they'll never get to that point, it's not for them and it's fine - they've still used condoms every single time. Not once has Claude had to talk the other man into using protection, he hasn't had to explain to him how it matters even more than normally, because Jean Louis is having a stable, undoubtedly sexual relationship with someone else. All of that is self-explanatory between them and Claude kind of loves that aspect of him. Since Gilbert, it has been essential, using condoms. Since Rainier, it has been essential not having to fight for his own basic rights.
So, he whimpers a little and flexes his hips upwards once, before Jean Louis begins rolling on the condom. There's the sense of rubber and coolness, but it's only for a moment, until the latex sucks up his body heat - and God knows, he's warm, he's so damn hot, he's dying right now. ]
Please. [ It's a half-whisper, not a plea. Little pearling drops of sweat have gathered along his collarbone and in his chest hair. He needs Jean Louis to do something, quickly. Now, preferably. He's shaking from it. From wanting. ] Shit, Jean Louis. Please.
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Claude's got a very big cock. It's nicely shaped, very much like the rest of his body, but it's also a very interesting challenge to blow. One's throat doesn't much appreciate neither girth nor length, does it? But he's used to Marcel who's larger still (you'd be hard-pressed to find someone larger, unless you went scouting amongst elephants on the African savannah) and really, the strain of forcing your jaw to cooperate pales in comparison with the reaction that follows. Blowing a man is a bit like sucking his brains out; in that aspect, it's satisfying in its own right. Even if cock isn't necessarily his greatest turn-on when it comes to oral sex.
Please, he says, and Jean Louis watches him squirm for another couple of seconds before leaning in over Claude's lap, parting his lips and sucking the head of his cock into his mouth. Relaxing his jaws, he keeps his lips folded over his teeth, making certain not to accidentally tear the condom or, indeed, the cock as it slides further into his mouth, along the width of his tongue. He takes it slow, mostly for his own sake - besides, they have time, don't they? They have time. Breathing shakily through his nose, he keeps his hand locked around the base of the shaft. Keeps still for a few, outdrawn seconds before drawing back slowly. ]