He watches almost without blinking as Claude crosses over to him, taking the jacket from him and leaving it on the bed, every movement a testament to the gentle grace seemingly inherent to him. Christ, what a voice, too. He looks back at the armchair, wondering for a moment if he’ll ever get up if he sits down like this – all strung up, his cock growing harder and harder between his legs. Shifting from foot to foot, he finally just. Turns away and shuffles over to the chair, trying not to wince as the fabric of his breeches scratch against his skin. Itchy cotton – but better than nothing, naturally. Imagine that. Sitting down, he undoes his bowtie somewhat more swiftly, going on habit rather than anything else. It’s always one of the first items he discards at night and not just because it’s the logical thing to do. He hates wearing it; if it wouldn’t be completely scandalous, he’d never wear anything around his neck ever. He’s thought about ascots… as if he needs to bait his mother any further than he already does, simply by being who he is.

Expression a bit flat, he pushes every thought of his family and daily life away, focusing instead on Claude as he spreads out a flock of sheep – or what’s left of them, anyway – on the floor by the fireplace. His feet start to tingle immediately. Lord, they look so comfortable… And warm, too. He’s seen lots of sheepskins in the country, of course, whenever they’ve visited his father’s extended family. Usually (but not exclusively) attached to the sheep in question. But they’ve never actually owned any because those kinds of expenses would be ludicrous, considering his father’s income. Almost subconsciously, he toes out of his shoes – Claude did tell him to make himself comfortable and if those skins aren’t meant to warm his feet, then truly nothing is.

Whether they’re meant to warm other parts of him too… that’s the better question, isn’t it? I’ll be all yours, he said. And right now, sheepskins included, Vincent honestly can’t think of a single thing he’d rather have.