(( LOG : it's getting better ))

[downplaying]

[Characters:] Vincent & Claude
[Date:] 13.02.2014
[Summary:] Happy birthday, birthday boy.
__________

It's been a long week. God, it's been long... Too long. He's been to New York on behalf of Le Monde, to cover the opening of a new wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a wing dedicated to traditional and contemporary African art. He has talked to everyone and their mother, if they were of even the slightest relevance to the collection. University professors, artists, museum directors, sponsors, you name it. Yes, he's been around. And all the while, Didier has been with him, knowing quite a few of the contributors and having sponsored the transfer of several native pieces from Senegal. Heaven knows, he loves Didier, but the man can make for very taxing company when you catch him in a sour mood and he's been in a sour mood from the first Senegalese piece was revealed to they went their separate ways at the airport earlier today. It has been very obvious that he'd been much less impressed with the Americans efforts than Claude who has given the exhibition good reviews overall.

Finding his keys blindly, he unlocks the front door, stepping inside mostly without paying attention to anything around him except for the handle of his suitcase and his coat, hanging over his other arm. It's an act of supreme balance, preventing either Socrates or Plato from escaping out the door before he can close it behind him, while at the same time stopping his coat from sliding down or his suitcase from slipping through his fingers. Which is probably the reason why he doesn't notice either the little bows around their necks or the bells attached at first. Because really... under any other circumstances... He puts the suitcase down, hangs his coat away and finally straightens up fully, looking down at the cats. Unable to notice anything but the light red (almost pink) bows. Poor cats. Next thing he notices is the amount of candles lit all around the hallway - and the kitchen and beyond the kitchen, the living room. Candles everywhere, but no husband in sight.

"Vincent?"

There's the lovely smell of food cooking, so his man has got to be around here somewhere. Doing God only knows what.

Comments

[justcrywolf]

He doesn’t answer, favouring Claude with a thoroughly lewd smile instead. What’s there to say, really? He’s all about making it as hard as fucking possible. Especially with Claude being all passive and receptive like this; it’s funny, really, how personality’s so multi-layered and, at times, self-contradictory. Like Claude, now, with his raw and rather undiluted masculinity, loving roses and a touch of softness just as much, if not more than harsh and unapologetic sex in the heat of a moment. Vincent knows him too, of course. Knows him well.

Pushing the shirt down Claude’s shoulders, he slides his palms down his overarms very slowly. Deliberately so. Enjoys the broadness of his built, the slight contour of muscle beneath his skin. Vincent's got no preference for highly-muscular studs (ew, actually); he just really enjoys the feel of man, so fucking sue him. Emphasis on "likes". Leaving the shirt swaying lightly by his elbows – the man can stretch out his arms himself, presumably – he looks him up and down slowly. Again, because why the fuck not. His flat chest, covered lightly in coarse curls; his stomach and the trail of darker hair, leading downwards. To the best stuff. Shit, he’s got an attractive husband. Actually, just right now… just this second… he kind of wants… yeah.

Reaching out, he places his palm flatly over Claude’s chest, rubbing against one nipple slowly, his touch going from light to assertive within seconds. With his other, he unbuttons his trousers and slips his hand down, cupping his hardening cock through his briefs. Quickly, effortlessly, keeping them still for the time being – and in movement, simultaneously, the way sex is always just a matter of pace.