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xp_logsHours after Everett's revelation and Jean-Paul's utter failure to distract himself, he decides to look elsewhere for something to take his mind off of his questions regarding his career as an Olympic skier.
WARNING: Semi (possibly) explicit sexual content. Mostly just hinted at, but it's in there. Also, BDSM. Sort of. Nothing hardcore, but it's more than just hinted at. JP isn't in a good headspace, but he's 100% consenting, etc, since he seeks Quentin out.
With fall settling in, there was not much time before running outside would make its yearly metamorphosis from satisfying exertion to painful chore. Quentin was making the most of it in the time he had left. He had managed a 5-mile run, a major accomplishment for him, and now sat on the front steps of the mansion, stretching and cooling down. He noticed something white wiggling on the tip of his shoe, and closer inspection revealed it to be his socked toe poking out through a hole. He was going to need to get new sneakers soon. Maybe time for a whole new workout wardrobe. The ratty old t-shirt he wore was practically transparent by now, and though these short shorts were fine for the summer or the club, he would need something better to survive the winter.
Jean-Paul was on the roof.
He'd been on the roof hoping that the fresh air and the height would be enough to distract him from Everett's revelation about his powers, but neither did the job. Scowling, he glanced down over the ground just in time to see Quentin Quire appear. He observed the younger man for several long minutes as he settled on the mansion's front steps.
Angry at himself, angry at everyone and everything, Jean-Paul ended his contemplation and hopped off the roof. He landed in front of Quentin and approached without pause. "Sex, oui?"
Quentin blinked. Had he just entered the middle of a conversation without knowing it? Or had he fallen unconscious in the woods from dehydration and this was just a dream? No, not enough cracks in the sky or discordant notes sounding at regular intervals to be his brain. This was real. "Oui?" he answered, thinking that no matter what, that was his default answer to any question like that.
"Très bien," Jean-Paul said, holding out a hand. "Now."
Quentin blinked again. He'd fantasized about the encounter with this French Canadian god often enough that actually experiencing it was disorienting. "Just to be clear, we're talking about you and me fucking, right?"
"This is what 'sex now' means," Jean-Paul said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Rapidement," he muttered, gesturing with his hand again. "Is it too cold for you for sex outside?"
Never fuck a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever that saying was. Why ask questions? Quentin took the proffered hand and pulled Jean-Paul to him so he could use his other hand to grab another part of Jean-Paul. "I'd make you come right here if that's what you wanted."
"Make me come there," Jean-Paul said, lifting his chin toward the corner of the building closest to them. He didn't think anyone would forgive him for instigating sex of any sort on the mansion's front steps, but he had no qualms about getting or giving a blowjob just around the corner from it.
Quentin feigned mild disappointment at not being able to put on a show and provide some actual entertainment for passersby. Oh well, they'd just have to catch up on the telepath's Snapchat later.
"Stay out of my head," Jean-Paul said, gripping Quentin's collar as he walked the younger man backward.
He let himself be guided, putting up no resistance. He had no idea what had gotten into Jean-Paul, but he was all too happy to play the compliant slave the other man clearly needed right now. Quentin let out a huff when Jean-Paul pressed him against the wall, the rough brick scratching through his shirt, but anything he might have said was silenced by Jean-Paul's mouth on his.
Several hours and a move upstairs to an unused bedroom in an equally unused suite -- after a stop to grab the appropriate supplies -- saw Jean-Paul removing his mouth from the mark he'd left on the back of Quentin's neck. A moment later and he'd removed the condom, tying it off before throwing it in a conveniently located trash bin.
So far, Quentin had proved himself an adequate distraction. The Quebecois was less inclined to regret his decision, since there'd been far less talking than he'd expected.
Even if he had wanted to talk, Quentin's mouth was too busy. He quickly lost most of his ability to say words, anyway, as he'd submitted to whatever pleased Jean-Paul, which in turn pleased him. The only sounds he had made throughout the evening were grunts, moans, pleas, and the occasional whimper when Jean-Paul would force him to edge. (Which, to be fair, ultimately boosted the climax.)
He remained on all fours for a few moments while Jean-Paul disentangled himself before jerkily getting to his feet. To say he'd had his brains fucked out was an understatement. He nearly lost his balance getting around the bed to check himself out in the mirror, but caught the bedpost just as his legs buckled.
His neck was not the only place Jean-Paul had left a mark. His whole body was covered, the most prominent mark being a red handprint on his right buttock. He chuckled. That would make a good tattoo.
Sliding off of the bed, Jean-Paul finished cleaning himself off with a tissue, then bent to retrieve his boxers. "Again? Or..." He held the ice-blue fabric up to indicate the entire process of getting dressed. "Non?"
Quentin looked over his shoulder, once again taking in the exquisite sight and committing it to memory. "It takes some people longer than seven seconds to get ready for the next round," he said wryly, but telekinetically yanked the underwear from Jean-Paul's hand and flung it across the room to signal his assent. "You wouldn't happen to have any ropes or anything stashed away here, do you?"
Jean-Paul outright smirked. "Of course not," he said. "But if I do things correctly, I will not need them. You see?" If he was given to any sort of analysis of other people's minds, he might have wondered whether or not Quentin was actually allowing himself to slip into a proper subspace -- or if some faculty of telepaths allowed for a different type of division in the mind when it came to those sorts of things. As it was, he made sure the other man enjoyed himself and, in the process, had his own fun.
Meanwhile, with the ability to form coherent thoughts slowly returning, Quentin himself started to wonder if Jean-Paul was in the right head-space himself. As ordered, he kept his telepathy to himself, and though he still was not particularly receptive despite his year and a half of training from the experts, Jean-Paul practically reeked self-loathing, something with which Quentin was all too familiar with himself, but was completely out of place with the Olympian. Well, if body worship was what it would take to lift his spirits, then Quentin was honored to be chosen as a supplicant.
Quentin's cell phone rose from his pile of clothes and came to his hand. He turned around so his back was to the mirror, held up his phone, and shot a selfie of his ass. It would accompany the dozen other photos he'd taken tonight.
Grabbing a bottle of water, Jean-Paul tossed it onto the other side of the bed, then picked up one for himself and uncapped it. "When you are ready," he said, gesturing toward the mattress before taking a drink. "We can begin again."
"You make it sound so clinical," Quentin chided as he snapped a quick, slightly blurry pic of Jean-Paul in all his engorged glory (from the neck down, of course, per the terms of their agreement). Still, he did not dare disobey, and obediently returned to bed.
Amused despite himself, Jean-Paul murmured, "Clinical? Nothing here is clinical." And then he set about continuing his mission to take Quentin apart piece by piece, button by button. It was that, or letting himself dwell in his own head about every small possibility that existed for him to have dishonestly -- if accidentally -- won the gold medals he'd believed he'd worked and trained so hard for. Obviously, keeping his mind on something else was far preferable.
WARNING: Semi (possibly) explicit sexual content. Mostly just hinted at, but it's in there. Also, BDSM. Sort of. Nothing hardcore, but it's more than just hinted at. JP isn't in a good headspace, but he's 100% consenting, etc, since he seeks Quentin out.
With fall settling in, there was not much time before running outside would make its yearly metamorphosis from satisfying exertion to painful chore. Quentin was making the most of it in the time he had left. He had managed a 5-mile run, a major accomplishment for him, and now sat on the front steps of the mansion, stretching and cooling down. He noticed something white wiggling on the tip of his shoe, and closer inspection revealed it to be his socked toe poking out through a hole. He was going to need to get new sneakers soon. Maybe time for a whole new workout wardrobe. The ratty old t-shirt he wore was practically transparent by now, and though these short shorts were fine for the summer or the club, he would need something better to survive the winter.
Jean-Paul was on the roof.
He'd been on the roof hoping that the fresh air and the height would be enough to distract him from Everett's revelation about his powers, but neither did the job. Scowling, he glanced down over the ground just in time to see Quentin Quire appear. He observed the younger man for several long minutes as he settled on the mansion's front steps.
Angry at himself, angry at everyone and everything, Jean-Paul ended his contemplation and hopped off the roof. He landed in front of Quentin and approached without pause. "Sex, oui?"
Quentin blinked. Had he just entered the middle of a conversation without knowing it? Or had he fallen unconscious in the woods from dehydration and this was just a dream? No, not enough cracks in the sky or discordant notes sounding at regular intervals to be his brain. This was real. "Oui?" he answered, thinking that no matter what, that was his default answer to any question like that.
"Très bien," Jean-Paul said, holding out a hand. "Now."
Quentin blinked again. He'd fantasized about the encounter with this French Canadian god often enough that actually experiencing it was disorienting. "Just to be clear, we're talking about you and me fucking, right?"
"This is what 'sex now' means," Jean-Paul said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Rapidement," he muttered, gesturing with his hand again. "Is it too cold for you for sex outside?"
Never fuck a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever that saying was. Why ask questions? Quentin took the proffered hand and pulled Jean-Paul to him so he could use his other hand to grab another part of Jean-Paul. "I'd make you come right here if that's what you wanted."
"Make me come there," Jean-Paul said, lifting his chin toward the corner of the building closest to them. He didn't think anyone would forgive him for instigating sex of any sort on the mansion's front steps, but he had no qualms about getting or giving a blowjob just around the corner from it.
Quentin feigned mild disappointment at not being able to put on a show and provide some actual entertainment for passersby. Oh well, they'd just have to catch up on the telepath's Snapchat later.
"Stay out of my head," Jean-Paul said, gripping Quentin's collar as he walked the younger man backward.
He let himself be guided, putting up no resistance. He had no idea what had gotten into Jean-Paul, but he was all too happy to play the compliant slave the other man clearly needed right now. Quentin let out a huff when Jean-Paul pressed him against the wall, the rough brick scratching through his shirt, but anything he might have said was silenced by Jean-Paul's mouth on his.
Several hours and a move upstairs to an unused bedroom in an equally unused suite -- after a stop to grab the appropriate supplies -- saw Jean-Paul removing his mouth from the mark he'd left on the back of Quentin's neck. A moment later and he'd removed the condom, tying it off before throwing it in a conveniently located trash bin.
So far, Quentin had proved himself an adequate distraction. The Quebecois was less inclined to regret his decision, since there'd been far less talking than he'd expected.
Even if he had wanted to talk, Quentin's mouth was too busy. He quickly lost most of his ability to say words, anyway, as he'd submitted to whatever pleased Jean-Paul, which in turn pleased him. The only sounds he had made throughout the evening were grunts, moans, pleas, and the occasional whimper when Jean-Paul would force him to edge. (Which, to be fair, ultimately boosted the climax.)
He remained on all fours for a few moments while Jean-Paul disentangled himself before jerkily getting to his feet. To say he'd had his brains fucked out was an understatement. He nearly lost his balance getting around the bed to check himself out in the mirror, but caught the bedpost just as his legs buckled.
His neck was not the only place Jean-Paul had left a mark. His whole body was covered, the most prominent mark being a red handprint on his right buttock. He chuckled. That would make a good tattoo.
Sliding off of the bed, Jean-Paul finished cleaning himself off with a tissue, then bent to retrieve his boxers. "Again? Or..." He held the ice-blue fabric up to indicate the entire process of getting dressed. "Non?"
Quentin looked over his shoulder, once again taking in the exquisite sight and committing it to memory. "It takes some people longer than seven seconds to get ready for the next round," he said wryly, but telekinetically yanked the underwear from Jean-Paul's hand and flung it across the room to signal his assent. "You wouldn't happen to have any ropes or anything stashed away here, do you?"
Jean-Paul outright smirked. "Of course not," he said. "But if I do things correctly, I will not need them. You see?" If he was given to any sort of analysis of other people's minds, he might have wondered whether or not Quentin was actually allowing himself to slip into a proper subspace -- or if some faculty of telepaths allowed for a different type of division in the mind when it came to those sorts of things. As it was, he made sure the other man enjoyed himself and, in the process, had his own fun.
Meanwhile, with the ability to form coherent thoughts slowly returning, Quentin himself started to wonder if Jean-Paul was in the right head-space himself. As ordered, he kept his telepathy to himself, and though he still was not particularly receptive despite his year and a half of training from the experts, Jean-Paul practically reeked self-loathing, something with which Quentin was all too familiar with himself, but was completely out of place with the Olympian. Well, if body worship was what it would take to lift his spirits, then Quentin was honored to be chosen as a supplicant.
Quentin's cell phone rose from his pile of clothes and came to his hand. He turned around so his back was to the mirror, held up his phone, and shot a selfie of his ass. It would accompany the dozen other photos he'd taken tonight.
Grabbing a bottle of water, Jean-Paul tossed it onto the other side of the bed, then picked up one for himself and uncapped it. "When you are ready," he said, gesturing toward the mattress before taking a drink. "We can begin again."
"You make it sound so clinical," Quentin chided as he snapped a quick, slightly blurry pic of Jean-Paul in all his engorged glory (from the neck down, of course, per the terms of their agreement). Still, he did not dare disobey, and obediently returned to bed.
Amused despite himself, Jean-Paul murmured, "Clinical? Nothing here is clinical." And then he set about continuing his mission to take Quentin apart piece by piece, button by button. It was that, or letting himself dwell in his own head about every small possibility that existed for him to have dishonestly -- if accidentally -- won the gold medals he'd believed he'd worked and trained so hard for. Obviously, keeping his mind on something else was far preferable.
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