He can feel the way Claude’s watching him and as he looks up to meet his eyes, he’s met with the sight of his breeches, untied and well on their way down his hips.
For a long moment, it feels like he can’t breathe.
Though he’s been trying not to think about it too carefully (and failing, naturally, as is his way in these matters), Vincent’s definitely considered this more than once – how the bulge beneath Claude’s dancing garments has always seemed so very pronounced, almost sordidly so. While it started out as something very shocking and… overwhelming, he’s later come to associate the ballet and its well-endowed male silhouettes with a special sort of freedom. Something to look at, as if doing so were altogether common place. However, it’s seemed… rather obvious to him that Claude would have to be… well. He is, obviously. Eyes eating it up, his big, hardened cock, the spread of pubic hair running up to his navel, he feels his own body respond – a deep, heavy sensation of warmth, spreading through his abdomen, every last inch of him well and truly affected. He wants to… it’s…
Jaw setting, he rises from his seat as Claude settles down on the sheepskins. He does note how the other man leaves him room to join but even if he hadn’t, Vincent wouldn’t really have cared - all he can think is that were he to lie on the cold, hard floor, it wouldn’t deter him from getting his hands on that magnificent man. The underlying fear – the shame, the knowledge that he ought to feel humiliated by his own, despicable mind – is forced to the background by something much stronger, much hotter and more instinctual than anything he’s ever felt before. Closing the distance between them, he pauses only to untie his trousers and slide them down his hips, the material pooling around his feet as he steps out of them with smooth, fluid movements. He may have been clumsy and stiff throughout the evening but surely… surely, this is not the time to fight what’s already there. Clearly, this… whatever it is – clearly, it’s settled beneath his bones in a way that can’t be undone or ignored, even if everything else is uncharted territory. Very uncharted and oh God, he mustn't think about it.
Settling down carefully next to Claude, undoing his breeches singlehandedly and leaving them gaping around his hips, he ignores the chill of anxiety raking down his back and leans in again, pressing his lips against Claude’s with enough force to channel away most (if not all) of his nervous energy.
no subject
For a long moment, it feels like he can’t breathe.
Though he’s been trying not to think about it too carefully (and failing, naturally, as is his way in these matters), Vincent’s definitely considered this more than once – how the bulge beneath Claude’s dancing garments has always seemed so very pronounced, almost sordidly so. While it started out as something very shocking and… overwhelming, he’s later come to associate the ballet and its well-endowed male silhouettes with a special sort of freedom. Something to look at, as if doing so were altogether common place. However, it’s seemed… rather obvious to him that Claude would have to be… well. He is, obviously. Eyes eating it up, his big, hardened cock, the spread of pubic hair running up to his navel, he feels his own body respond – a deep, heavy sensation of warmth, spreading through his abdomen, every last inch of him well and truly affected. He wants to… it’s…
Jaw setting, he rises from his seat as Claude settles down on the sheepskins. He does note how the other man leaves him room to join but even if he hadn’t, Vincent wouldn’t really have cared - all he can think is that were he to lie on the cold, hard floor, it wouldn’t deter him from getting his hands on that magnificent man. The underlying fear – the shame, the knowledge that he ought to feel humiliated by his own, despicable mind – is forced to the background by something much stronger, much hotter and more instinctual than anything he’s ever felt before. Closing the distance between them, he pauses only to untie his trousers and slide them down his hips, the material pooling around his feet as he steps out of them with smooth, fluid movements. He may have been clumsy and stiff throughout the evening but surely… surely, this is not the time to fight what’s already there. Clearly, this… whatever it is – clearly, it’s settled beneath his bones in a way that can’t be undone or ignored, even if everything else is uncharted territory. Very uncharted and oh God, he mustn't think about it.
Settling down carefully next to Claude, undoing his breeches singlehandedly and leaving them gaping around his hips, he ignores the chill of anxiety raking down his back and leans in again, pressing his lips against Claude’s with enough force to channel away most (if not all) of his nervous energy.