violence in my heart †

Bradley didn’t have to look. Between the strangled moaning and groaning, the pulsating beneath his fingertips, he could tell that Claude was enjoying himself. That was what he had been bred for, after all. He had been dismantled by one Harry Kress who had rebuilt him from the ground up, his purpose to please, to pleasure, to tempt, to tease. As a result, he had gotten quite good at it and he thrived on the attention. He must have been surprised, this lost boy, the same one he had last seen frightened and alone in the world, was now eager to please him in the unholiest of ways, stroking his cock and his ego with pride and expertise. His one hand still wrapped around the older man’s shaft, he half snaked his other arm across his shoulders, tangling his fingers in his hair as the other one squeezed the head of his cock. He breathed ragged and hard against his neck, biting his lip, glancing down at his hand while it worked. He barely registered his words, but practice had made him nearly perfect, and he was able to reply with relative ease. “You might be surprised what I can do.” He leaned closer and nipped at his earlobe again, then gave it a little suck. He could not have what he really wanted, which was the older man on top of him, inside of him, every inch buried in his insatiable ass. But now was not the time, or the place. They were going too fast, even in his compromised state he knew it. Bradley hardly knew him, but he wanted him. He had been tortured by half remembered dreams of those lips, those eyes, those hands. The chance could come, and it could go, and he would be a fool not to take advantage of it.

Running his hand across the expanse of Bradley's chest, Claude moaned into his mouth as he felt The Boy's fingernails scratch his neck. In retaliation, he located his nipple, giving it a tug as he bit at his lip, soothing the roughness of his teeth by passing his tongue over the victimized lip. His mouth still tasted of something sour, but he barely noticed, too distracted by everything else that was going on. He had more than made up for calling him from his home earlier than was reasonable, and it seemed that he would continue to do so. The fast, uttered declarations of want and desire that fell from the boy's lips rung in his ears, made his heart beat faster. He did not know what to say. He wanted Bradley nearly as much as the boy wanted him, it seemed, but he could not tell him that, the words sticking in his throat. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he breathed against his lips. "I'm not through with you yet, Mr. Hirschal." The name still felt so good rolling off of his tongue, and he smirked to himself as he brushed his lips against the boy's. Releasing Bradley's nipple, he slid his hand down his chest, over his abdomen, seeking the button of his jeans. Finding the button, he tugged at it for a moment, letting out a frustrated growl when it did not immediately slip free. "Hold on," he said, grabbing the wrist of the hand that was wrapped around his shaft. Pulling his hand away, he let out a groan as his cock slipped free from Bradley's grasp, twitching once more in protest. Placing his hand on his chest once more, he firmly pushed him back towards the passenger door before moving his hand back towards the zipper of his hoodie to finish unzipping it. As he did so, the fabric slipped open to reveal his bare chest, and Claude smirked in approval.

Bradley picked up the glass of wine that had been designated as his judging by the fact that Claude and Jennifer had already drank from the two others. Eying the pair with suspicion and jealousy, he wanted to ask about the particulars of the job she had mentioned. His assistant. The worst part was, she seemed too nice to hate. And though Bradley had no claim over Claude (what they had did not even resemble a relationship), he felt one all the same. He took a long drink from his wine, lowering it when he overheard the word him from Jenny’s mouth as she spoke quietly and conspiratorially with Claude. Am I him? What are they talking about? Suddenly self-conscious, he set his glass down and pulled his sleeves over his hands. Being an ass would get him nowhere, and Jennifer had done nothing to deserve his sass. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been to a dinner party.” He told her, pushing the chopped up vegetables to the middle of his cutting board. “Maybe after a few glasses of that wine, we can talk fun.” He went over to stove and pushed his vegetables into the pan. He felt the weight of Claude’s gaze heavy on the back of his neck. “Thank you.” He said, entirely too needy for his own good. “I feel safer here with you.” He glanced at him before returning to the opposite counter and picking up his wine again. “How long?”

Claude raised an eyebrow at Jennifer as she spoke, her voice low, as if sharing a secret. Glancing at Bradley, he nodded to her slightly before he began stirring the contents of the pan. "You're right, I suppose." As Bradley approached him to deposit his share of vegetables into the pan, he resisted the urge to tense. He always did have trouble with physical proximity, especially when The Boy was involved. The quiet thank you that he gave him was unexpected, and the man gave him a look. The temptation to be rude was overwhelming, especially when he was already feeling like an overworked father with too much on his plate, but he held his tongue and simply gave him a quiet "You're welcome," in response. Returning his gaze to the pan, he fell silent, listening to the pair as they spoke to one another. He wished that he was able to speak to them casually with that much ease, but he did not know what he would say. The weight of the day's events had worn him down even more than usual, and he was not functioning at his highest capacity. He hoped he would not have to, and that they would simply be able to eat and then retire for the evening, with no trouble finding its way into his home.

Bradley gave a self-satisfied smile against unshaven skin, stretched taunt over the older man’s jaw. Feeling the outline of his cock through his trousers, he let Claude’s hand control his for a moment, pushing harder, faster. He increased his movements, doing what Claude wanted even after he released his hand. It would simply not do to disappoint him. He hated the thought of Claude losing interest in him, in deciding that he was not interesting or useful or pleasant to be around. He would stop answering his texts, not pick up his calls. The short time they had known each other was of no consequence. He was protecting a possibility, an idea, a frail hope. He needed to remember the people who were always forgetting him. So he did so with his body, which was all he had to give. Sex was a surrender, handing power over to someone and trusting them not to abuse it. This was not sex, not yet, but maybe if he played his cards right… He left little kisses along his neck in the shadow of his chin, running the tip of his tongue briefly over his jugular. Gasping when he pulled his head back, he was half afraid he would be kicked out of the car. Then he felt his lips ghost over the older man’s as he spoke, his words sending shivers down his spine, his cheeks flushing. Prove it. Now there was a challenge. He couldn’t even pretend not to hear it. He looked up into his eyes, biting his lip in half imitated coyness.

Is this what you want? The soft words barely broke though the haze, as Claude's attention was focused on the sight of the pretty lips that they had fallen from. He truly was an astonishingly beautiful boy, and the man could not imagine the planes of his face being shaped by any hands that did not belong to the Lord himself. An angel, a seraph, even in exhaustion and dragged from the decrepit mire that he had found him in. He closed his eyes as Bradley leaned in to kiss him again, his chapped lips feeling like the softest silk to him, despite their roughness. When he felt the boy's soft fingers wrap around his shaft, Claude could not help but let out a low moan into his mouth. How long had it been since someone touched him like that, and with such urgency? The reciprocation of his passion was flattering and frightening all at once, and he could feel himself grow harder with every touch, every stroke, his arousal heightening. Moving his hand from Bradley's hair to his shoulder as he kissed him, he had a hard time forming thoughts. Opening his eyes, he held The Boy's gaze as he pulled back, watching him intently as he leaned over his crotch. Claude's mouth dropped open as he watched the trail of saliva drip from the boy's mouth down to his cock, cool as it made contact against the hot tip, causing it to twitch. "Fuck," he gasped out, not realizing that the word had been hovering behind his teeth. His grip on his shoulder tightened, watching the Boy as he sat up straight again, that particular look on his face. As he leaned into him, his fingers sliding over him, Claude let his arm slip over the boy's shoulders, his hand returning to the back of his head to grip his hair.

The results of Bradley’s teasing was immediate, and he was not disappointed. The assistant commissioner who was always so high and mighty, always fully composed, always in control, had something akin to panic in his eyes. Oh, he had underestimated him. Though he appeared timid and submissive, he knew how to use his body to get what he wanted. He could be shrewd, nymph that he was. If he hadn’t known before that the attraction between them went two ways, he certainly knew it now. His fingers had just about reached his groin in their slow but steady climb when the older man jerked the steering wheel, the sharp turn of the car causing Bradley to go tumbling back into his seat. He felt his heartbeat pick up, and for a moment he thought he’s bringing me out here to kill me. But that wasn’t it. He could see his grip, knuckles white on the wheel and he knew that he had him on the ropes. A thought flitted through his head. A regret, and then a hope. He could no longer deny these strange desires, how he had been plagued by little nagging thoughts that lingered, little curiosities. Truly, he was in over his head. He knew it to his core, and yet, he could not seem to climb back out. Thrust into the pit, into the belly of the beast, and this strange and sudden attraction consumed him. What a lovely way to die it was.

The feeling of Bradley's lips against his. His fingers curling into his collar. The small sounds that he made into his mouth. It was all somehow far too much, and far from enough all at once. Claude breathed hard and heavy against his mouth, his grip on the boy tight and painful, as if he were preparing to rip him to shreds. He had always been a man full of passion, when the situation called for it, but the violence and intensity of his emotion was rarely matched. But there he was, Bradley Hirschal, dancer at the Devil's Underground, returning his brutal affections with ardor. Claude let out a groan against his mouth as he felt the boy's hand drop down to his crotch, kneading at him. The sensation sent a rush of warmth down his spine, and he needed more. Letting go of Bradley's face as the boy moved his lips along Claude's jaw, he grabbed his wrist, holding his hand against him. Leaning back against the headrest, he closed his eyes, savoring the sensations that his passenger was bestowing upon him. He barely registered Bradley's words through the haze, and thinking of how to reply turned out to be an even more difficult task. What did he want? He was not one to show his passion so quickly to a stranger, much less in his car in broad daylight, and yet he had essentially orally attacked him. He let out another low groan as Bradley rubbed him in just the right way, the rush of warmth and arousal that he felt proving that Mr. Hirschal was successful in his task.

Bradley took notice of Claude’s new, almost playful attitude, and wondered to himself what had changed since he picked him up at Triton’s Palace. The city was in chaos, the commissioner (his boss) dead, and yet, he joked and teased and was making pasta for an escort and a college student that he had scooped up off the street in the frenzied aftermath of the shooting. Maybe it made some sense. With the former commissioner gone, Claude would almost certainly be getting a promotion, but it seemed a little morbid to be celebrating already. “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen one before.” He answered her question that had been for Claude, a reminder to both of them that he had been there before, not her. But for all he knew, maybe she had been there before, too. The jealousy that swelled in his chest was distasteful, but couldn’t be denied. “White wine and pasta primavera. I feel like I’m in Florence already.” He had never been there, but Harry had told him about Florence once. It seemed like someplace Claude would enjoy. “So, should we have to let the wine breathe? Would it be impolite to swallow? I’m not sure if I know the difference between a salad and a desert fork.” He picked up a dish towel, drying his hands from the moisture and juice the vegetables had left on them. He crinkled his nose, an impish smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Is this a dinner party? How posh.”

Claude furrowed his brow at the attitude that Bradley was suddenly expressing, his hand hovering over the wine glasses where they were stored on the shelf. He narrowed his eyes at him, not liking the sass. Looking back towards the cabinets, he moved his hand away from the wine glasses, over to the shorter cups that he had, grabbing three. Opening the drawer in front of him, he pulled out the wine corkscrew and set to the task of opening the bottle. Pulling the cork free with a satisfying pop, he gave Bradley a pointed look before he poured wine into all three of the glasses, nearly to the rim. Setting a glass on the counter next to where Jennifer was standing, he grabbed the other two, setting one next to Bradley's cutting board, looking at him. "Stop bitching," he told him - rather ungently - before gulping down half of the other glass. Pulling the glass away from his mouth, he pursed his lips slightly, already regretting his decision. He shook his head briefly before he set the glass down and grabbed a frying pan, placing it on the stove. Grabbing the bottle of olive oil, he splashed a bit into the pan. "Bring those over here," he said, gesturing to the vegetables.

"Maybe stripper’s not the right word." Bradley wondered aloud, looking out the window. "I mean, there’s not a lot of stripping involved. I pretty much start with nothing on. But you know, right? You’ve been there. You’ve seen." But before he could answer, he was distracted by the suggestion that he had known a lot of overworked strippers before coming to Regium. "And I s’pose Oakes City is a hotspot for sex workers. Back when you were commissioner. I remember. I have a good memory for little things like that, just not the big stuff." He looked out the window for awhile longer while cars and trees and buildings came and went. They all looked so small in the rearview. Claude sat like a sentinel, near and present. Bradley wondered if his back ached from being so straight. Why was he so quiet? He thought his eyes might bore holes in him while he looked on, waiting for an answer. Then it came, and he smiled at gaining his attention, however little and fleeting. "You don’t talk while you drive? Do you listen to the radio? You don’t talk on the phone, do you? That’s illegal, y’know." When the older man admitted to his age, he felt a wave of surprise, followed by arousal, wash over him. "Fifty-one? That’s not too old. You’re younger than my dad." Realizing too late that he had never mentioned his father before, he hoped the remark would go unnoticed and that he wouldn’t have to discuss it further.

Claude gave him a look, pursing his lips ever so slightly in indignation. "No, I haven't seen," he said, looking back towards the road. "We've already established that. If I had seen you prancing around nearly nude then I think I would have recognized your profession when you came down to the station." Perhaps it was a bit unkind to be so short with him, but the boy was starting to get lippy, and he didn't like it. When he brought up Claude's previous position at Oakes City, he felt his heart sink a little. He did not like to think of his time in Oakes, the bitter memory existing on the fringes of his mind, all the hard work that he had put in all for nothing. Oakes had been his home, the place where he had grown and flourished. What had Regium brought to him? A demotion, less opportunities, and a constant headache. He often wondered why he had bothered moving there at all. He still cursed Elena Baudelaire every day and every night for ruining him, for forcing his hand. "It is," he replied curtly. "It's where I built my career." Ignoring the boy's further pestering, he began to tune him out when the word father came out of his mouth. Claude looked at him, curious. He had spoken of his mother before, and her passing, but he had made no mention of his father. He considered asking him about the man, but when he thought the distaste he harbored for his own father, he thought that Bradley might not like to talk about him, especially when he had such tragedy in his life. Misery breeds misery, or so it seems.