#nan-chi

Brows lifted on that handsome face, Lucien plays along.  He leans back, broad chest expanding in a sigh to feel your hands start to wander: nimble fingers sliding beneath fabric to seek the warmth of skin, admire the lean muscles of his thighs.  And as your touch draws closer and closer to part his robe up the middle, the sight of his body thus bared to you emboldens even as it excites.

You look up and nod.  His hand settles on the crown of your head, elegant fingers threading through your hair in a gentle caress as you lay open-mouthed kisses on your lover — trailing slow up one leg and down the other, savouring his heat on the petals of your lips.  Coming excruciatingly close to his hardening prize without ever making contact in a deliberate test of the professor’s patience.

“It seems that I’ve neglected to include any mementos of our more…intimate moments.”

Another rush of blood, but this time, concentrating in the sensitive tips of your breasts, in the dampening between your legs…in the buzzing at the base of your skull that blankets your mind in a purple haze of euphoria.

And all because of the way he looks at you.

Dark and intelligent, Lucien’s eyes are half-lidded now, shining with some alchemic mystery as he studies you with a fervour that leaves you shaken to the core.  It never failed to thrill — the existence of one such as he who saw past every wall you strove to erect, the silent grace of a man who understood you without ever being asked to try.

And so there was little you wouldn’t do for him, whether it was trudging through the hassles of a delayed 12-hour flight just to see him for a mere 24, or reaching now to turn on the camcorder in his hand, smiling for the camera as your lips dip to brush against the warm silk of him — hot and growing steadily still within the grasp of your fingers and mouth.

“Happy birthday, my love.  This is my gift to you.”

Cream never tasted so sweet.

🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂📹🎂

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But like a dog with a rabbit in its jaws, Arthur’s words wouldn't let him go.

He stood and stared at the wooden panels of her door, as if the answer lay somewhere in the swirls and whorls of woodgrain, before lifting his hand to knock.

"Hondje? You in there?"

There was no answer for a moment, but he could hear the faint rustling of someone moving around on the other side. "Theo?"

"Yeah, look, I -" He jammed his hands in his pockets, a rush of restlessness washing over him. He wasn't sure he'd ever looked forward to and dreaded a conversation so much. "You got a minute?"

"Oh! I….yes, just…" Her voice was pitched a half-octave higher suddenly, shrill with something like panic that set him on edge - especially when he could hear her bustling around. "Hold on. One second. I'm -"

Her words dissolved into a small shriek, as he heard a heavy thud from the other side, and decorum took a backseat to concern as he pushed the door open in a rush. "Hondje?! You okay?"

His gaze darted about. Same pink frilly room, spotlessly organized. Nothing out of order save for the easel in one corner and a canvas, now face down on the floor and her standing over it, dropcloth still in her wringing hands as she looked up at him guiltily.

He blinked at it a moment, heart twisting like a gibbet in his chest. A painting from Vincent? One he hadn't seen either?

He brushed off the fresh handful of salt on the wound, and plastered a smirk on his face. "Dropped your toy, Hondje."

"No, that's-!" She cried in dismay, as he reached to lift it back onto its easel. "You weren't supposed to see it yet."

He frowned, taking in the way her entire body seemed to droop. If she were a pup in truth, her tail would be hanging between her legs at that moment. 

“Why?” He bit back the bitter words that tried to follow. “Something secret between you and Vincent?”

He forced a chuckle then, although it scraped raw in his throat like sandpaper. “I was kinda hoping you guys would have told me yourselves about this but…” he began, as he lifted the piece back into place on its easel.

And then the rest of his comment died away, as he got a look at the painting. He knew immediately it wasn’t one of Vincent’s works - the brushstrokes were all wrong. Clumsy, perhaps a bit, but Vincent’s influence was there in the texture and colors. 

And it was -

He blinked, bemused. “Is this...King?”

“Yeah. Or well, it’s supposed to be, but I guess it obviously is if you could recognize it. Although I know the anatomy needs some work and the shading - golden fur is hard to get just right, and he wouldn’t hold still. I must have sketched him twenty times, I don't know how people work without photographs for reference." She was babbling, and he recognized the nerves eating at her in the way she worked the cloth between her hands over and over. “You weren’t supposed to see it until tonight though, after your birthday dinner.”

An awful, magnificent understanding dawned on him. “Did Vincent help you with this?”

“Yes, I...used to draw and paint a little back home, just as a hobby you know. And when Vincent reminded me it was your birthday soon, I couldn’t think of what to get you.” He watched with keen interest as a blush rose charmingly on her cheeks, spreading nearly to her neck as she went on. “But I know you love art, and you love King…so I thought maybe you’d forgive bad art if it was a subject you liked so much.”

"This is what you’ve been doing in his room the past few weeks?" A breathless sort of anticipation made itself at home, in the confines of his chest, as he asked the question he hoped he already knew the answer to.

She nodded, opening her mouth as if to say something, but closed it again.

"So you and Vincent aren't lovers."

"What?" She squeaked, her eyes flown wide with dismay. "No! Vincent and I? Why would I...I mean I can see why…" She trailed off, then found her footing again. "But no. Definitely not. I…"

She fumbled to a halt again, her eyes sliding up to meet his before bouncing away, and he wondered if he was imagining the way her blush shaded from crimson to carmine.

"I see." He took a step closer, watching with amusement as she took a wary, answering one back. More rabbit than pup in this moment. He took pity on her, and turned to look over the painting. "Let's see this closer then."

He made a show of pulling his ever-present magnifying lens from a pocket, bending to examine the work up close. His initial assessment had been right - sloppy strokes, the color muddied in a few places, the perspective just faintly off. And yet…

And yet...the warmth squeezing in his heart whispered what he already knew. It was the best painting he'd ever seen, flaws and all. 

Because it was hers.

Because she'd made it for him.

He straightened, clearing the sentimental knot from his throat. "Your composition could use some work. The shading, too. But…" A smile ghosted across his lips, as he reached out to tousle her hair gently. "It's a good painting. You've got some talent, hondje."

"You like it?" Her mouth rounded into a surprised o, and he had to stifle the urge to shout how much he loved it.

"Yeah. It's not bad, not bad at all." He smirked at her. "Although King elevates any scene, right? And you clearly have a good teacher."

“The best,” she agreed. 

His hand was still atop her head, fingers snared in the soft strands of her hair as he looked down at her. Suddenly and acutely aware of the small space between them and the upturned tilt of her face - her pretty mouth just begging to be sampled.

It was his birthday. Maybe he would be forgiven for wanting to give himself one gift.

“I like it. A lot.” He murmured, and that fetching blush rose on her cheeks again. “But I can think of something else I’d like for my birthday too.”

“You can?” She frowned, her lips pursing adorable. “What?”

And that little moue was all the impetus he needed to lean down and cover her lips with his, swallowing down her small sound of surprise. His arms coming around her body as she stiffened, only to feel her melting against him moments later.

“Happy Birthday, Theo,” she managed, when he’d drawn back to take a breath. Her fingers still clutching at his sleeves and her eyes alight with something he flattered himself was happiness. 

“Yeah.” He didn’t bother trying to smother his grin, just before ducking down to steal her lips again, stoking the slow blaze of a fire he knew would take all night - if not a lifetime - to burn itself out. “Yeah. It is now, isn’t it?”

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