[ Oh, it's so good - he's being so good, Elio, opening up his mouth and letting him drive himself towards the finish line. Though his balls feel colder without his palm cupping them, he really can't argue with Elio's decision to free his hands when he sees where they're going - down, yes, to his own trousers, because he's going to jerk himself off, despite the cold, despite the discomfort of it. He manages a muttered yes, Elio, do it under his breath, thrusting into his mouth and feeling him take it. The pleasure builds with every stroke inside, every slide out, and his balls are starting to feel incredibly tight. He keeps going, letting Elio support himself against his thigh and watching, enraptured, as he starts stroking himself.
Within long, the sound of the ocean disappears into the background, overridden by the wet slick of Elio's hand around himself and the sound of his mouth working tirelessly around Jean Louis' cock. He's perfect. How is he perfect? More to the point, how is he here, in front of Jean Louis on his fucking knees in the sand, clearly loving what they're doing, clearly loving...
How is he?
Breathing heavily, he finally angles himself a little differently, feeling the built-up like an overwhelming urge to go deeper, to go in, and he does, he sinks into Elio's throat all the way, feeling that pop as his cock pushes past the tight opening. He slips his hand further down, completely on impulse, and rests his fingers very gently against the slope of Elio's throat. He can feel himself in there, behind his skin, stretching him.
And that's how he comes, feeling utterly mindless, his cock pulsing deep inside Elio's throat as he spends himself in a handful of hot spurts. He pulls out immediately after, not fast but efficiently, the still-hard length of his cock slipping out from between Elio's lips wetly, strings of cum sticking to his tongue as it goes. Jean Louis' chest is heaving like he's run twenty fucking miles. The cold - he's completely forgotten about that. He moves his hand from between Elio's shoulderblades to the back of his head, running his fingers through his curls, trying to catch his breath and to catch himself.
[ Jean Louis tells him to do it, yes, Elio and Elio would whimper if he didn't have his mouth full already, working himself harshly, desperately, in time with the other man fucking into his mouth, sinking into his throat on that last in-stroke, the one where it'll all explode, Elio can tell, and spending himself in a couple of hot spurts. Like that, Elio is speared on his cock, feeling it pulse between his lips, on his tongue, feeling Jean Louis touch his throat oh so gently, like he wants to feel the traces he's leaving behind in there. He won't go unnoticed, this time. This time, someone will see, Jean Louis, that's what Elio's thinking, jerking himself off in long, persistent strokes of his palm, fingers, thumb over the head. Oh, oh.
I will see you.
Then, the other man pulls out of his mouth, leaving his throat raw and burning, cum on his tongue, just strings and droplets, but enough to steal a taste and that's the final straw, for Elio, getting to taste him, the salty, stringy texture of what he's left him with. Himself. His essence.
And now, Elio does whimper, he whimpers loud and clear in the quiet of the night, coming all over his own hand, the sand, his cock pulsing harshly, it's a fast orgasm and the whole thing didn't really take long, but it's blissful. It's absolutely perfectly real. His voice sounds raw and used and Elio wants to sound that way always, wants to carry Jean Louis on his vocal chords everywhere, for everyone to hear. Oliver? Oliver, too. He doesn't care.
Once the first rush dampens, Elio falls very quiet and keeps staring at the expanses of skin in front of him, Jean Louis' abdomen and chest, then higher, his face, his eyes. He meets them hesitantly, for some complex psychological reason fearing a show of regret from the other man. We shouldn't have. Not here. Not like this. Why did you make me? Slowly, he releases his cock and dries his hand off in his shirt, rumbled, stiff from salt here and there. Now, cum.
Getting to his feet takes a long time, it feels like. He keeps looking at Jean Louis the whole way. ]
Are you feeling warmer?
[ Was it worth it, it means. Himself, Elio feels boneless and beautiful, but when was that ever enough? ]
[ They come apart like that, Jean Louis' cock falling back against his abdomen, half-hard, on its way to flaccid again and Elio on his knees for a long moment, looking up at him with something in his eyes that doesn't quite make sense to him, something that emphasises the distance between them in a way that he doesn't like. Tilting his head slightly, he watches as Elio gets to his feet, looking slightly stiff, staring at him the whole way and asking him whether he feels warmer. Was there a point to it, is that it? Why would he ask that?
He thinks about Elio in the car a couple of days back, about how he'd been staring out onto the road, deflated in a way, as if expecting to be defeated. He thinks about Oliver, briefly, who seems to take quite a bit for granted in his life. Then, lips twitching with a sudden rush of anger, he steps forward and slips both hands around Elio's waist, pulling him up against his naked front. He's too cold, Elio. Are you feeling warmer, he said, frozen nearly through.
No, he can't give himself away like that, like none of the pieces matter.
He won't have it. ]
I feel...
[ Pause. His gaze glides sideways, then, and he blinks, trying to figure out how to phrase this. It has to do with emotions, with thoughts and ideas and notions that he rarely ever touches upon, except to push them aside. ]
Closer. To you. [ He wets his lips. Runs one hand through Elio's hair slowly, fingering the curls there, loving them. ] You always make me warmer. It's something very peculiar, actually - how you do that. I'm always worried you'll freeze in the process some day.
[ He steps back, releases Elio. Goes to pick up his shirt in the sand, drying off with harsh movements, his left shoulder rigid from the cold. Quite possibly, he's said too much - he feels as if he has. But on the other hand, he doesn't know how to tell him these things, these odd, fragile things, without baring aspects of himself that he can't stand the sight of anymore than others can; to show him that everything Elio gives him, he takes and he wants and he saves.
[ The first response he gets is a wholly physical one. With a twist to his features, Jean Louis steps forward and pulls Elio up against him, both hands on his waist, telling him then in words what his body has already said, clearly. I feel closer to you, he says and Elio experiences a rush of happiness unlike anything he's felt before. Like a literal wave of unrestrained joy that pumps through his system with his blood. They feel the same, they feel the same, they feel the same - this overwhelming intimacy that he's searched for his whole life, possibly, but never found, except in fragments and intervals and even then. Even then.
He breathes in hard, breathes out even harder. You always make me feel warmer, Jean Louis carries on and Elio almost wants to tell him to stop, he can't take any more, he can't bear so much emotion at once, but it's a lie, he wants nothing more than this. He always wanted everything, but he thought no one in the world would or could give him that. The moon, sure, power and gold, easy, but everything? And yet - something very peculiar. Jean Louis says.
Letting himself be released, clumsily reaching down to tuck himself away, back in his pants, cum-slick and quickly chilling, Elio watches the other man drying himself off in his shirt, the fabric going see-through and frail-looking from moisture. Then, he starts putting on his clothes, pants first. Elio zips up his own. Licks his lips. They taste like Jean Louis. The essence of him.
That's what Jean Louis is giving him. ]
I want to be so close to you that the skin separating our bodies is more strainer than barrier, Jean Louis. [ A pause. Elio hesitates, he knows he has to go on, but he also knows he's crossing that boundary now, between acceptable and unacceptable. Enough and too much. You have to keep doing it, he was told months ago, though. ] That way, if you're warm, I'll be warm. We'll warm each other, we'll share. Everything.
[ Not really feeling the cold anymore, Elio reaches up and out, letting his hand run up Jean Louis' still naked upper arm, to his bad shoulder, from there down his back, over ink lines he can't see and the marks they hide, an extra layer down. You have to feel for them, your eyes won't be enough.
This is the same thing. This is the same. Feel it. ]
[ He pulls on his trousers, stuffing his underwear away in a pocket - it's all either wet or it will be, there's no way around it, the shirt's absorbed all that it can before it even reaches his face. His limbs feel heavy from orgasm and combined with the lingering aftershocks of the cold water, his nervous system is basically on zero. It's good. It feels like a re-set, even if the foundation itself can't quite be helped.
Next to him, Elio takes a moment to process his words. When he speaks, his voice sounds hoarse, that tell-tale sign of an abused throat and it makes something hot stir in his belly again, the thought of having left himself behind like that, marking him from within. We'll warm each other, says Elio. We'll share everything and does he really want that? Does he? Does he?
Then, Elio reaches out and runs his hand up his upper arm, over his left shoulder and down, trailing over the tattoo lines, his cover-ups, because he prefers to control the narrative and in this case, people tend to tell themselves a better story, really, no matter what they see. When he'd come back from the hospital all those years ago, he'd looked like a gory accident or, alternatively, someone who'd been sick from a very bulbous sort of disease (cigarette burns in huge quantities do not become visually pleasing over time, as it turned out). No true stories, obviously, but not preferable either.
It has to be preferable.
Breathing slowly beneath Elio's hand, he finally turns towards him and catches his wrist between his fingers. He holds him still for a moment, two, before he simply pulls it closer to his face. As gently as he can manage (pretend to be, that's how it'll always feel), he kisses the skin right above the big, blue vein on the underside of his wrist. Then, he releases him, shifts sideways out of reach and puts on his shirt. ]
Thank you.
[ Meaningless words in this context, he's aware, but Elio will know. He'll understand. He finally picks out his phone from his pocket and calls up a number, getting Johan on the line who tells him that the car will be there in five. Been keeping watch, hasn't he? Bet he's been very pleased about the entertainment of the evening. ]
My men will pick us up. Get us back to the house in no time.
[ The thing about Jean Louis that Elio is learning, but has loved since the beginning, maybe from their very first night together, the other man pounding into him, a weight across his back, breath down his neck and willingness to listen to him whimper, is how beneath those still features of his face, there’s depth, there are lagoons and quicksand, natural phenomenons that can swallow you whole, if you don’t know how to work with them. Elio is many things but not stupid, he knows those kinds of forces are dangerous, but he also knows they make room, carve out the earth, creating pockets of space, just in order to exist. And the thing about Jean Louis is that he’s a willing container, he holds and he cares for and he carries. Elio. Elio’s feelings. Elio doesn’t think he’s ever been held like this before. That’s the thing.
Thank you, the other man replies and Elio knows that although the words themselves are brief, brief enough to leave space for all Elio’s excessiveness, they are floating on deep waters. Who does Jean Louis normally thank? Jean Louis expects and wants and demands, takes sometimes. Elio’s voice is bearing the brunt of it now, but who does he thank, if anyone?
Elio.
So Elio smiles when the other man catches his wrist and turns towards him, kissing it where the skin shows veins underneath. Vulnerability. Jean Louis is kissing his vulnerability, Elio was always good with symbolism and obviously, his Foreign Minister is, too. In turn, Elio bites his lip, everything tastes like him still, salt, water, cum, and allows himself to be let go of, it’s not forever, it’s for a while. They’re close enough, like this. It’s okay.
Looking up at the moon, clear and in perfect halves today, he licks his lips absentmindedly. ]
I guess we’ll see who’s faster. Your men or a common cold.
[ He crosses the distance between himself and his abandoned socks, shoes, readies himself to leave this pocket of theirs, enter a new one. ]
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solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
no subject
Within long, the sound of the ocean disappears into the background, overridden by the wet slick of Elio's hand around himself and the sound of his mouth working tirelessly around Jean Louis' cock. He's perfect. How is he perfect? More to the point, how is he here, in front of Jean Louis on his fucking knees in the sand, clearly loving what they're doing, clearly loving...
How is he?
Breathing heavily, he finally angles himself a little differently, feeling the built-up like an overwhelming urge to go deeper, to go in, and he does, he sinks into Elio's throat all the way, feeling that pop as his cock pushes past the tight opening. He slips his hand further down, completely on impulse, and rests his fingers very gently against the slope of Elio's throat. He can feel himself in there, behind his skin, stretching him.
And that's how he comes, feeling utterly mindless, his cock pulsing deep inside Elio's throat as he spends himself in a handful of hot spurts. He pulls out immediately after, not fast but efficiently, the still-hard length of his cock slipping out from between Elio's lips wetly, strings of cum sticking to his tongue as it goes. Jean Louis' chest is heaving like he's run twenty fucking miles. The cold - he's completely forgotten about that. He moves his hand from between Elio's shoulderblades to the back of his head, running his fingers through his curls, trying to catch his breath and to catch himself.
Fuck. ]
no subject
I will see you.
Then, the other man pulls out of his mouth, leaving his throat raw and burning, cum on his tongue, just strings and droplets, but enough to steal a taste and that's the final straw, for Elio, getting to taste him, the salty, stringy texture of what he's left him with. Himself. His essence.
And now, Elio does whimper, he whimpers loud and clear in the quiet of the night, coming all over his own hand, the sand, his cock pulsing harshly, it's a fast orgasm and the whole thing didn't really take long, but it's blissful. It's absolutely perfectly real. His voice sounds raw and used and Elio wants to sound that way always, wants to carry Jean Louis on his vocal chords everywhere, for everyone to hear. Oliver? Oliver, too. He doesn't care.
Once the first rush dampens, Elio falls very quiet and keeps staring at the expanses of skin in front of him, Jean Louis' abdomen and chest, then higher, his face, his eyes. He meets them hesitantly, for some complex psychological reason fearing a show of regret from the other man. We shouldn't have. Not here. Not like this. Why did you make me? Slowly, he releases his cock and dries his hand off in his shirt, rumbled, stiff from salt here and there. Now, cum.
Getting to his feet takes a long time, it feels like. He keeps looking at Jean Louis the whole way. ]
Are you feeling warmer?
[ Was it worth it, it means. Himself, Elio feels boneless and beautiful, but when was that ever enough? ]
no subject
He thinks about Elio in the car a couple of days back, about how he'd been staring out onto the road, deflated in a way, as if expecting to be defeated. He thinks about Oliver, briefly, who seems to take quite a bit for granted in his life. Then, lips twitching with a sudden rush of anger, he steps forward and slips both hands around Elio's waist, pulling him up against his naked front. He's too cold, Elio. Are you feeling warmer, he said, frozen nearly through.
No, he can't give himself away like that, like none of the pieces matter.
He won't have it. ]
I feel...
[ Pause. His gaze glides sideways, then, and he blinks, trying to figure out how to phrase this. It has to do with emotions, with thoughts and ideas and notions that he rarely ever touches upon, except to push them aside. ]
Closer. To you. [ He wets his lips. Runs one hand through Elio's hair slowly, fingering the curls there, loving them. ] You always make me warmer. It's something very peculiar, actually - how you do that. I'm always worried you'll freeze in the process some day.
[ He steps back, releases Elio. Goes to pick up his shirt in the sand, drying off with harsh movements, his left shoulder rigid from the cold. Quite possibly, he's said too much - he feels as if he has. But on the other hand, he doesn't know how to tell him these things, these odd, fragile things, without baring aspects of himself that he can't stand the sight of anymore than others can; to show him that everything Elio gives him, he takes and he wants and he saves.
Like a magpie with a taste for gold. ]
no subject
He breathes in hard, breathes out even harder. You always make me feel warmer, Jean Louis carries on and Elio almost wants to tell him to stop, he can't take any more, he can't bear so much emotion at once, but it's a lie, he wants nothing more than this. He always wanted everything, but he thought no one in the world would or could give him that. The moon, sure, power and gold, easy, but everything? And yet - something very peculiar. Jean Louis says.
Letting himself be released, clumsily reaching down to tuck himself away, back in his pants, cum-slick and quickly chilling, Elio watches the other man drying himself off in his shirt, the fabric going see-through and frail-looking from moisture. Then, he starts putting on his clothes, pants first. Elio zips up his own. Licks his lips. They taste like Jean Louis. The essence of him.
That's what Jean Louis is giving him. ]
I want to be so close to you that the skin separating our bodies is more strainer than barrier, Jean Louis. [ A pause. Elio hesitates, he knows he has to go on, but he also knows he's crossing that boundary now, between acceptable and unacceptable. Enough and too much. You have to keep doing it, he was told months ago, though. ] That way, if you're warm, I'll be warm. We'll warm each other, we'll share. Everything.
[ Not really feeling the cold anymore, Elio reaches up and out, letting his hand run up Jean Louis' still naked upper arm, to his bad shoulder, from there down his back, over ink lines he can't see and the marks they hide, an extra layer down. You have to feel for them, your eyes won't be enough.
This is the same thing. This is the same. Feel it. ]
no subject
Next to him, Elio takes a moment to process his words. When he speaks, his voice sounds hoarse, that tell-tale sign of an abused throat and it makes something hot stir in his belly again, the thought of having left himself behind like that, marking him from within. We'll warm each other, says Elio. We'll share everything and does he really want that? Does he? Does he?
Then, Elio reaches out and runs his hand up his upper arm, over his left shoulder and down, trailing over the tattoo lines, his cover-ups, because he prefers to control the narrative and in this case, people tend to tell themselves a better story, really, no matter what they see. When he'd come back from the hospital all those years ago, he'd looked like a gory accident or, alternatively, someone who'd been sick from a very bulbous sort of disease (cigarette burns in huge quantities do not become visually pleasing over time, as it turned out). No true stories, obviously, but not preferable either.
It has to be preferable.
Breathing slowly beneath Elio's hand, he finally turns towards him and catches his wrist between his fingers. He holds him still for a moment, two, before he simply pulls it closer to his face. As gently as he can manage (pretend to be, that's how it'll always feel), he kisses the skin right above the big, blue vein on the underside of his wrist. Then, he releases him, shifts sideways out of reach and puts on his shirt. ]
Thank you.
[ Meaningless words in this context, he's aware, but Elio will know. He'll understand. He finally picks out his phone from his pocket and calls up a number, getting Johan on the line who tells him that the car will be there in five. Been keeping watch, hasn't he? Bet he's been very pleased about the entertainment of the evening. ]
My men will pick us up. Get us back to the house in no time.
no subject
Thank you, the other man replies and Elio knows that although the words themselves are brief, brief enough to leave space for all Elio’s excessiveness, they are floating on deep waters. Who does Jean Louis normally thank? Jean Louis expects and wants and demands, takes sometimes. Elio’s voice is bearing the brunt of it now, but who does he thank, if anyone?
Elio.
So Elio smiles when the other man catches his wrist and turns towards him, kissing it where the skin shows veins underneath. Vulnerability. Jean Louis is kissing his vulnerability, Elio was always good with symbolism and obviously, his Foreign Minister is, too. In turn, Elio bites his lip, everything tastes like him still, salt, water, cum, and allows himself to be let go of, it’s not forever, it’s for a while. They’re close enough, like this. It’s okay.
Looking up at the moon, clear and in perfect halves today, he licks his lips absentmindedly. ]
I guess we’ll see who’s faster. Your men or a common cold.
[ He crosses the distance between himself and his abandoned socks, shoes, readies himself to leave this pocket of theirs, enter a new one. ]