Claquesous is the night. He walks in the shadows of streetlamps, keeps his head bowed, dares not leave the safety of his cave during the daylight hours; while this lifestyle is presumed by good folk to be arduous, he finds it to his liking.
One reason for this is that he sees everything. If ever a crime happens on the streets of Paris, he knows about it. He has eyes in dark alleyways, ears in underground chambers. And, though he witnesses all, he has the ability to skirt about unseen. His face is forever obscured by an eye-shrouding mask fitting of a crime movie. His shoes are those of dancers, so that he may slip about without being sensed.
He is the night.
And so it is that when he stumbles upon none other than his informal leader Montparnasse positively fucking a spectacularly well-built man into a wall, well – let's just say that he was grateful for his clandestineness.
When the leader wanted something, he would get it 90% of the time. The other 10%, the aforementioned "something" would be too stained with the blood of its former owner to be of use. Montparnasse probably envies something of this enormous, muscular specimen with his track pants pooled around his ankles, right above his practically sparkling-new Nike Lebron X's, considering the disgusted, scrunched-up look on his face as he pounds the giant with each thrust of his hips. The larger man's face shows nothing but pleasure. His eyes are closed tightly and he is moaning loud enough to wake the entire block; the muffled cries of pleasure are audible even through Montparnasse's shoulder around which his jaw is clenched.
Montparnasse comes with a shout, and the larger man follows seconds after. The thief curses and jumps back.
"You got your nasty fucking cum on my jacket, you little shit," he spits, zipping up his trousers, "do you have any idea how much this suit cost?"
"More than your goddamn life is worth," rumbles the hulking figure trying to pull his pants up in the most dignified way possible. (Let it be known that there is no dignified way to pull one's pants up after getting fucked hard against a wall in a dirty alleyway).
The venom in the thief's eyes is palpable through the thick air between the two. "You're paying for this."
"Oh? And who's gonna make me? Your punk-ass gang of rejects?" he taunts.
Montparnasse pulls a handgun out of his blazer and points it at the tracksuit-clad man. "You have until the count of three to hand over what you owe me, or I'll blow your brains all over this fucking city."
"Woah, okay, take it easy, man," he begs, putting his hands up.
"One."
"Come on, man, I was just playin'. Put the gun down; let's talk about this."
"Two."
"A'ight, look, just calm down now, and –"
But he is cut off when a bullet enters the front of his neck and leaves out the back, making a tiny clink when it hits the brick wall behind him. With that, Montparnasse stalks forward. He bends over the corpse, lets out a sickening chuckle, and proceeds to go through the man's pockets. "Oh,marvelous," he purrs, pulling out a pair of keys.
Claquesous smiles from his hiding spot in the darkness. Slipping out of the alleyway and onto the abandoned street, he spies the object of Montparnasse's desires: a dark grey 2013 Bugatti Veyron, new enough to still possess a dealer's license plate. He laughs silently to himself.
Montparnasse stalks out of the alley, a mischievous and unmistakably proud glint in his eyes. He slides into the car, inhales the new car smell with a pleased grin, and even goes so far as to snicker wickedly as the engine roars to life at his fingertips. All of this is before he turns to notice his tall, lanky lieutenant gazing at him from the passenger seat. The thief's smile grows ever wider. "I didn't expect to see you here," he admits, "Hopefully that scene back there didn't scare you too much."
Claquesous' thin lips turn up in a semblance of a smirk.
"He had it coming, though," he continues, long since used to his friend's perpetual silence, "He thought he could get away with cheating me out of what I rightfully deserve." The crook strokes the expensive black leather steering wheel, sending shivers up his spine. "Damned bastard. I gave him exactly what he wanted too, that sicko, and what did he do? He had the nerve to mouth off on me. And, to top it all off, he ejaculated all over my brand fucking new suit! Custom tailored, Claquesous!"
Claquesous shakes his head in apology.
The felon rips off his jacket and throws it at his friend. Claquesous catches it with a disgusted expression, and then proceeds to deposit it on the floor.
New sweat and blood stains are apparent on Montparnasse's posh button-down, which shouldn't turn on the creature of the night as much as it does, but damn if he doesn't look fine covered in the blood of his enemies. He can't resist reaching out and trailing a leather-gloved finger down the pinpoint oxford cloth covering his chiseled bicep, only to snap it back a moment later and lick the blood off in a slow, languid fashion, all the while maintaining eye contact with the piercing brown eyes of his comrade.
"You liked that, didn't you?" Asks a dumbfounded Montparnasse, watching with rapt attention as Claquesous sucks at the tip of his finger.
As a reply, he brings the finger farther into his mouth.
"Damn, that's hot as fuck," he huffs, turning his attention to the road when he puts the car in drive.
Claquesous notices with satisfaction the growing bulge in Montparnasse's lined wool trousers. Such a satisfying response, considering he hasn't even touched him yet. He plugs his iPhone into the dock. Montparnasse hums contentedly as the rap's booming bass reverberates around the car like waves of pure sexual energy, arousing him without him having to think about it. Quite pleasing, if one was to ask a slyly beaming Claquesous.
Songs fade into one another as they drive along the black streets at speeds well over what is considered legal. The pure rush of adrenaline from driving the smooth beast makes its way straight to his cock. Throughout the entire drive, he feels Claquesous' unflinching gaze upon him with a carnal desire he will be more than happy to fulfill. More than once during the drive, he peers over to his friend to see him rubbing himself through his pants while still maintaining eye contact – and hell if that doesn't make Montparnasse want to stop the car there and then and fuck him senseless.
Then, the beginning staccato beats of Kendrick Lamar's Backseat Freestyle come through the speakers; Montparnasse is impossibly turned on as the deafening sounds make their way under his skin. His right foot holds firm on the gas, increasing steadily, while his left taps out the rhythm. Claquesous, seeing such a positive reaction, reaches to turn up the volume. "All my life I want money and power," Montparnasse mutters along, "Respect my mind or die from lead shower."
The personification of the night has his right hand down his pants at this point. He long since shucked off his gloves and is now fingering himself in time with the music. The only sounds he makes are gasps and groans, all in rhythm. His other hand has made its way across the center console to massage Montparnasse's upper thigh.
The vibrations from the pounding beat under Montparnasse seep into him. He abruptly stops the car.
He snaps his head to look Claquesous dead in the eye, who in turn lifts an impossibly thin, sculpted brow above his black eye mask. With a catlike grace, he climbs over the center console to straddle his leader. "Goddamn, I feel amazing," he moans with the rap. Damn, I'm in the Matrix.Claquesous is rubbing their clothed erections together with a look of pure, lustful sin showing in his Cheshire smile. Montparnasse thanks the God he doesn't believe in that he just finished with the other man, or else he would be coming inside his new pants right then and there; there is no way in Hell he would be ruining both pieces of his suit tonight – but the way Claquesous is grinding down on him made him strongly consider it.
He didn't get to consider this alternative, though, because the smaller man is opening the door and pulling Montparnasse down onto the pavement. It's lucky for them that the side street of the Parisian banlieue is completely abandoned, because neither man is keen on postponing their tryst to find a more secluded location, and oh how Claquesous' nimble fingers are working wonders on his erection from outside his pants makes him want to have him right there.
Of course, since Montparnasse wants it, so shall it be.
Claquesous attacks Montparnasse's mouth in a flurry of lips and teeth and tongue, desperate for as much contact as possible. With skilled style, he pulls his leader's trousers off in a single fluid motion. All Montparnasse can do is lay there on his back and succumb to the sensory overload. The shadowy man proceeds to shimmy out of his tight pants.
Montparnasse moans. His partner is overrun with a feeling of pride at having reduced his powerful leader to this wanting state, but doesn't take long to bask in the glow of it; instead, he rubs his slick ass over his cock.
"You prepared for this in my new car, you kinky bastard," he breathes, surrendering himself to complete and utter arousal. Before he knew it, his monogrammed Louis Vuitton tie is loosened around his collar and re-tightened around his throat. He gasps for breath, only to find he can't.
Claquesous holds onto the tie with an iron grip. The shocked look on his leader's face is priceless - enough to make him slowly sink down onto his aching cock. The feeling of control - complete, utter control, takes him over. He slips a finger under the knot of the tie to allow a small window of opportunity for Montparnasse to take in a much-needed breath of air before restricting the flow again.
Montparnasse's thick cock brushes against his prostate and he lets out a noise like nothing the outlaw has ever heard before - something between the screech of a hawk and the bellow of a lion. Either way, the animalistic noise triggers Montparnasse's most primitive instincts; he bucks up relentlessly, stretching the smaller man to his limit. Claquesous' screaming grows louder and more frenzied. With each thrust, the tension around his neck becomes tighter, tighter, until he's dizzy and can't focus on anything but the unimaginably tight heat enveloping his cock.
Every few seconds, Claquesous will take his hand off of his own dick to allow for his partner to take a short breath, only to cut him off again. The cycle continues until Montparnasse feels like he's about to pass out, at which time Claquesous decides it's high time to release the breathless demon. He effortlessly discards the tie, not for a moment stopping the unceasing thrusts down in time with Montparnasse's quick rhythm, in order to surge forward and bite down on his collar bone. Montparnasse hisses under the pain of it all before an uninhibited, thundering shout is ripped from his lungs as he comes inside of Claquesous.
The smaller man is quick to follow suit.
He collapses on top of Montparnasse.
"God damn it!" He bellows, pushing Claquesous off of him. "You got your cum on my shirt! God fucking damnit!"
Claquesous just laughs as he leaned down to lick his cum off of his striped shirt.
"It's a good thing you're sexy," Montparnasse curses.
Claquesous winks.
"Let's make this a thing, eh?" He suggests, "You and me, I mean. Fucking. 'Cause, let's face it, that was the best I've ever had."
The night considers the suggestion for a moment before saying, "I'd like that."
And if the next day's newspaper headlines read "PARIS' TOP BASKETBALL STAR FOUND MURDERED," well, then, the coroner would have quite the treat in store, wouldn't he?