It feels so good.

A small tender sigh, and for a moment he just lets it rest there in Valentine's warm mouth, between his lips, on his tongue.

Then he begins to thrust, holding Valentine's head quite still with both hands.

That escalated more quickly than he was expecting.

He chokes, a little, and tries for a moment to move back to recover himself only to be stopped short. Then he’s just trying to keep breathing, to relax when it hits his throat — to stop himself from gagging, more than anything, because he’s full and he can feel his whole body begin to protest every time he starts to choke.

(It’s almost soothing. There’s so little he can do.)

He could make Valentine vomit it all up, Jean thinks, thrusting into the back of his throat, and then he abruptly stops thinking at all.

It's just barely possible for him to pull back enough to give Valentine the taste of it over his tongue. It goes over Valentine's cheekbones, too, dripping down his chin to his collarbones, a little in the ends of his hair.

He ducks his head, slightly, covers his mouth with one hand, tries not to cough.

After a moment, a little painfully, he swallows.

He opens Valentine's mouth with one hand; checks, thumb on Valentine's tongue, that he's swallowed it all.

With his other hand, he strokes Valentine's hair, slow and gentle.

He kneels there, flushed, pulse rapid under Jean's thumb, catching his breath.

He can't move, and he can't look away.

He takes the time to feel out the inside of Valentine's mouth at leisure -- pads of his fingers brushing over the slight roughness of tastebuds, massaging gums, pressing uncomfortably towards the back of the throat before relenting, seeking out the soft sensitive place between teeth and lower lip.

(All the while, the other hand keeps petting his hair.)

The intimacy of it is agonizing, from a man he barely knows, in his dim apartment with nothing on the walls where no one visits.

His jaw aches, opening for him. His mouth drips, saliva trailing down from the corner of his mouth. He shudders, slightly, from the pleasure of the fingers stroking him entering him inside him, from the exposure.

His palm rubs slowly over the leg of his pants.

He's done as abruptly as he began, wiping his hands on Valentine's kitchen towels before he buttons his fly.

"I must be going. I have a rehearsal."

It is not remotely a seasonable hour for a rehearsal.

“Ah — of. Of course,” he says, flushed, swallowing.

This seems vaguely out of the ordinary but he’s not nearly coherent enough at this moment to dispute it.

Jean flees the apartment.

...he does, however, linger outside the door.

He watches him go. Waits for the door to close behind him.

And then he doesn’t move, doesn’t even take down his pants—

He leans hard against the counter and takes deep, shuddering breaths and strokes himself hard until he comes, thinking about Jean’s fingers on his tongue.

No one could possibly say how long Jean stays for. He's certainly gone before morning.

(Why. Why. Why. What has he done.)

(How long until he can do it again?)

(It’s a while, before Valentine drags himself to the couch and falls asleep.)

There's nothing. For a week.

(Jean is capable of self-control. He is. He is.)

More crepes.

All at once, he really gets them. They start turning out close to perfect. He eats so well, for a day or two — piles of lacy, perfect crepes and berries and whipped cream and honey.

After a couple of days, though, he tastes them less. The sugar is cloying, sits heavy in his stomach. It goes from being a triumph to being ordinary to being laughable.

And then he goes into work and — doesn’t quite want to finish staff meal, he’s full from trying at the crepes again and comparing them to where he started, seeing if he actually improved, but he does anyway and then he spends half of his shift thinking about how he could have learned something from that if he had been really paying attention, if he had been hungry….

He gets rid of it and then washes his hands thoroughly and for the rest of his shift his attention is much improved.

He assumes that, the chase having concluded, he is no longer interesting.

A week in he sends his best photo of the crepes.

There are movers at Valentine’s door. 

They would like him to sign on this tablet, please, and then they’ll be ready to get started — is that couch going into storage or to the dump — does he have any pets they need to watch out for —

Trollies covered with moving blankets loom ominous just behind the man in front, bulky men trundling them along. 

Down in the street, a second van is parking. 

Valentine reads the address on the form five times.

Are they…absolutely sure they have the right apartment?

For Valentine Teegarden? Is he here?

Men in a different style of overalls are hauling rolls of carpet up the stairs, and arguing with one of the movers about who has first rights to the apartment.

……yes, this is Valentine Teegarden.

He takes a quick inventory of his apartment and starts gathering up everything he owns and actually likes. Most of it is in the kitchen.

Overalls #1 and Overalls #2 are ripping up his carpet. Overalls #3 is measuring his apartment.

The furniture movers, not to concede the precedence argument, are getting his couch up on trollies, and obstructing Overalls #1 and #2.

He tries to get an answer from the carpet guys, re: their provenance. Presumably the landlord would have called ahead? Hopefully?

This is an incredibly confusing question. They have ... a work order? From their boss? For here, right?

He checks another five times. It’s still for here.

He lets the carpet people be, after taking a picture or two. He is really not attached to his apartment’s carpet.

Now time to go figure out why the mysterious movers need to remove his couch from his apartment. He needs that to sleep on.

Did he not want it removed after all...? They can try to fit in the new furniture around it, they guess??