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bakerstreet2021-12-10 11:14 am
mllememe) wrote in bakerstreet2021-12-10 11:14 am
Entry tags:
in other words.
Sometimes all you need is a word to spark off an idea.
How to play -
1. Post a comment with your character's name, canon, and any preferences you may have (no shipping, no smut, etc.)
2. Leave the comment blank or post a word or two in the body. (It may also help if you list scenarios you would like to play.)
3. Reply to other people, either with words you picked out, or words they posted as prompts for a thread.
michel | find me | ota
we make the rules
i made this meme
Ah, being towered over. When did that last happen?
Unlocking the door to his apartment on the top floor, a newly restored penthouse, preserved in the romantic French style, he waits for Vincent to step inside before closing the door behind him, shrugging out of his own suit jacket, still damp from the rain. His apartment is big, the living room featuring a panoramic view of the Seine a few blocks over. The balcony's a beautiful spot in April. Not so much in December, except on New Year's Eve when it's quite all right, too. Several inlaid spots illuminate the waffle ceiling, the LED lights giving off a dull, golden light. His furniture is heavy walnut pieces, arranged with plenty of air around. Bohême, a guest of his said once, if artists made any money, of course.
Yet, they all know about artists, don't they?
Turning towards Vincent slowly, he raises an eyebrow. ]
Let me offer you a glass of good single malt. I have a magnificent Macallan, bought off an auction a few days ago. [ The other eyebrow goes up, his lips curving in amusement. ] You'd think I knew you'd be coming.
no subject
But Michel's jacket is as damp as his, and when they enter his apartment, the pacing remains quiet, unhurried, like there's some unknown calculation happening that Vincent doesn't know how to glimpse. He shrugs out of his jacket because that's at least one step in a familiar direction - and then, as he looks around curiously, Michel proceeds to offer him a glass of highly luxurious scotch and his spine actually tingles, hairs standing on end along his arms and shoulders. It's not unpleasant, not as such.
The problem is, he doesn't know how to describe it.
Frowning, he loosens his tie with one hand, nervous energy making the movement slightly jerky. ]
You'd think.
[ The living room looks spacious, more than it actually is, due to its big, panoramic windows and the copious amounts of natural lightening. The style is contemporary, lots of walnut, large shapes. A calm space, clearly an extension of the man's personality.
Pausing to look out over the Seine, he adds: ]
Are you going to keep doing this?
no subject
Relaxation. They're here to relax and enjoy. That's the plan.
Are you going to keep doing this, the other man wants to know while surveying his living room, seemingly drawing his own conclusions. Does he care about interior design? Michel doesn't, it's all been arranged for him, he's just here to reap the benefits. His smile softening and widening, all but at the same time, he shakes his head in a way that doesn't mean no, but rather don't worry about it, even if I am. ]
Doing what? Offering you the best I've got? Hopefully!
[ While he talks, he toes out of his shoes and pads across the living room floor to the small bar, the only thing he'd had any real opinion on himself when they were decorating, filling two glasses with the 1974 Macallan that he got on a bargain, because he knows well-connected people and as such finds himself quite well-connected, too, filling his own tumbler with a few cubes of ice and turning around to face Vincent, then.
With his usual nonchalance, he inquires: ]
Now. Do you want me to guess whether you like your drinks on the rocks or would you like to tell me yourself?
no subject
But like Michel said at the restaurant - he isn't leaving, is he?
Sighing, he unbuttons his own shirt a bit, just the top-most two, and turns slightly in the other man's direction at his question. Whether you like he says, because that seems to be the headline of the night. He could've used another word, like prefer or want, except that would've been incongruous for reasons Vincent still can't quite decipher. He just knows. He forces himself not to chew on his bottom lip. ]
Depends on my circumstances.
[ Obviously, whether you'd choose to water down your expensive drink or not depends highly on your choice of company, what message you'd like to project. In the world of Liberté, for example, you probably couldn't commit a greater faux pas because they might all be apes but they're also tough as nails, those people, without much regard for nuances or style. This isn't about that, though. This isn't City. It's about like and Vincent likes his whiskey one way, really, when it all comes down to it.
He glances sideways, looking directly at the other man. ]
But ice, I think. When you ask.
no subject
As he waits for Vincent to accept his glass, he looks him up and down, blatantly, just because they're taking it slow doesn't mean he can't be clear about what his intentions are. Should the other man have any doubts left. He's clever and he's jaded, the sort of combination of traits that ensures he wants the most of everything and expects the worst of it. Pity, especially as that type is tougher to surprise pleasantly than you'd think.
Michel has his work carved out for him here. While the topmost two buttons of Vincent's shirt are showing very pale, very smooth skin, the rest remains rather conservatively hidden still.
Best guess, it's the only conservative aspect of the whole man. A nervous tick. Whiskey can fix it. ]
And that's exactly how I picked you, you know. A little bit diluted, like myself.
[ Pursing his lips for a moment, he nods, as if giving it serious thought, then raises his tumbler to his lip and takes a small drink of the beautiful amber liquid. He makes a sound of contentment, enjoyment, too, watching Vincent over the rim of his glass the entire way. ]
Your turn to ask.
no subject
How I picked you says Michel because that's the other angle to this situation, the fact that they've chosen each other very specifically, though Vincent's intensely aware that they haven't been using the same parameters at all.
Somewhat panic-inducing but fuck that.
He sips his scotch - mm, that is nice, warm and rough on the tongue - and smiles a little over the rim of his glass. ]
It's always my turn, isn't it. Whether people realise it or not.
[ He turns more fully towards Michel, giving him a slow, deliberate look-over, from his lips - soft-looking, very - to his chest, further down, crotch, thighs. Back up. ]
But it's a funny thing, here, the two of us. [ He meets Michel's eyes again, his own very slightly narrowed. ] I'm not sure I know what to ask.
no subject
So, Michel changes his mind as swiftly and unapologetically as he does everything else. ]
Well, I figured you should have the offer. [ A swirl of his Macallan, another mouthful, it's heated and smooth, a bit like the pressure low in his belly now. ] Though, now that I think about it, I'm not particularly interested in answering. I'd much rather kiss you.
[ He says it without any application of pressure, like a casual observation, he could be talking about the view, the weather, it's still raining, you can hear the tap tap tap of drops against the windows. Only Michel's eyes talk about Vincent, they're lingering at the contours of his face, the sharpness of his chin, jut of jawline, very determined nose. It's good. He is good. Another swirl of his whiskey, needless mostly, but good for nerves. Then, Michel steps closer, reaching out and taking Vincent's tumbler from him, softly, their fingers brushing. He puts them down on the coffee table, before straightening back up.
Certainly, Vincent has a few inches on him. ]
You got a taste of the whiskey, yes? We can leave it for now, maybe the taste will be more to your liking when we return to it later. Or my cleaning lady will pour it all into the sink in the morning, leaving us with a clean slate. Either way.
[ While he talks, his voice careful and low, unassuming, unthreatening, Michel draws closer again and slides one big hand up the other man's arm, a long, outdrawn moment, feeling for the strength of him. Ah, very strong. Good and strong, what a rare combination indeed! ]
I'd rather like to kiss you.
[ So he does. He stretches his neck and kisses Vincent on the mouth, letting the soft pressure of his lips ask all the questions for now. ]
no subject
It's been there, though. The inclination to keep things superficial.
I'd rather like to kiss you says Michel, his hand big and warm against Vincent's upper arm and something inside his chest curls up until everything's tense, until he can't not be aware of how dangerous this is. Not because of Michel, no.
Not because of him.
When Michel kisses him, you se, he keeps it soft and easy and unpresumptuous, he doesn't try to take what he can't have, it's just a question, asked with care and Vincent can't remember... God, it's been so fucking long and he really, really should just tell the other man that the date's been great, thanks and so long, but instead he kisses him back, gently, gently. His beard tickles. His lips taste like whisky, expensive and rare and warm.
He shivers and his breath tumbles out of him, against the other man's mouth. He curls his hand around the back of his neck, sliding his fingers into his grey hair. ]
no subject
Vincent is older, another generation, perhaps he believes.
He is also pliant and responsive and he kisses Michel back, sliding his fingers into his hair, palm curled around the back of his neck and he is very warm, burning hot, a little bit sweaty and Michel makes a humming sound into the kiss before parting his lips, running his tongue over the bottom one, tasting whiskey and willingness. The inclination to say yes, when the man must undoubtedly be more accustomed to no. His own noes. The noes of others.
After all, no one says yes to a journalist. Even fewer say yes to a political consultant.
Pity.
Another small hum into the kiss, and Michel pushes his tongue inside the other man’s mouth with a hard, strong slide of wet muscle. It makes his spine tingle. Good. Strong. Heat and softness. He wants to nurture that. What a bastard you’d be, if you don’t! Slipping his arm around Vincent’s shoulders, he pulls him closer, chest to chest, strong again, firm. His other arm slips around his waist, feeling the slight tremble to him, how he breathes.
Yes, what a complete bastard you’d be. He caresses Vincent’s tongue softly with his own. ]
no subject
When Michel pushes his tongue inside, Vincent angles his head a little to give them both better access and returns the favour, his own sliding past Michel's, into the heat of his mouth. Despite the fact that he rarely makes an effort, Vincent's actually a decent enough kisser or so he's been told; right now, he's aware of every little movement he makes, of how Michel responds to him and he suddenly, he feels like he's been thrown back in time, back when he couldn't be sure of anything he did with regards to sex, with regards to...
Gasping, he draws back and away from the kiss. His lips feel wet and cold in the absence of Michel's pressed against them and he can't quite bear to step back, to bring himself away from his touch. So he stays in the other man's arms, their fronts pressed together, and a part of him really wants to just rest his cheek against the side of his face. Just stay like that and breathe.
Instead, he licks his lips, finding Michel's gaze again. ]
I know what I wanna ask. [ His voice is softer than usual. ] Is this how you usually do it?
[ He means, what is this and why and are you sure I can afford it and there's definitely something about that, about being so transparently ignorant, that makes him feel more naked than he's felt since... Well. England, possibly. When he came to Berlin, after all, he'd already been done with that shit.
Frankly, he's been done for decades or you know.
So he'd thought. ]
no subject
It's good.
Then, Vincent more or less wrestles free, stays in his arms but pulls out of the kiss and Michel doesn't try to stop him, simply leans back enough to give him room, space, time. Whatever he needs! They're breathing a bit fast, but in sync still and Michel savors that, the feeling of togetherness, even as they're a little less together than before.
Ah, life! Fluctuating, fluctuating.
Vincent asks his question, looking down into Michel's face with his soft expression and giving him his softest voice, too, and Michel thinks, soft boy, lovingly. However, he shakes his head first, sliding both hands around to the other man's front and beginning to pop the buttons of his shirt open, top down. His chest is smooth, a little hair scattered, catching the light. Michel slips one hand in beneath the fabric of his shirt and runs his palm over one pink nipple. It's a sensual touch, more than a sexual one. ]
Usually... You mean, do I take my men out to dinner first, do I invite them home, do I serve them whiskey and kiss them while telling them how much I want to? [ A small, contemplative sound as he frowns, thinking it over. He has a routine, sure, but lives for those little surprises. ] I do, I do. But there is no usual way, Vincent, because there's no usual man. I go where they take me, individually.
[ Curling his fingers a little, he drags his hand down along Vincent's midriff, the shirt bulging over his knuckles, reminding him of other bulging things. Michel smiles, looks back up at Vincent, the good boy who draws away at intimacy and asks questions when he should be kissing. Ah, well, as Michel says, he goes where they take him. ]
I wonder where you'll take me, yes?
[ And he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of the other man's mouth. It's a gesture, not a question. Don't tell him, surprise him! ]
no subject
Vincent has a usual way. He has a routine, even, concerning sex, though it's pretty crude. Meet up, find a place of relative privacy, fuck, leave. For God's sake, always leave and do so quickly enough, yes, to avoid something like this. He's been so fucking good at it, professionally so, you might say, ever since... well. For years. And years and years.
But then again, he hasn't met Michel before. ]
I, err.
[ He swallows when Michel kisses the corner of his mouth, leaning into the gesture. With how they're still pressed together, Michel's budding arousal is as obvious as Vincent's. I wonder where you'll take me and fuck, that really is the big question, isn't it, the actual, true headline of the night. I'm afraid to know he thinks but he doesn't say it, it's probably plenty obvious already with how he can't even seem to form coherent sentences any longer.
Exhaling a bit noisily, nostrils actually flaring ever so slightly, Vincent straightens up and slips his hands down Michel's back, to his waist. He fiddles with the fabric of his shirt where it dips near the hem of his trousers. Pulls it free a little, enough to slide his hand over the warm skin underneath, feeling smoothness and heat as well as a hint of strong bones, muscle. His next words come out breathless. ]
Shit, you and me both.
[ He jerks Michel's shirt a little for emphasis. Then, he starts working on the rest of his buttons, one at time, long fingers nimble and precise despite the slight tremble in his breathing. ]
no subject
As it is, Michel likes them soft. He likes them attuned to and unapologetic about their own emotions. He likes them giving and loving and in need of him. Elio was the perfect example, but everyone's their own kind of perfect and get it right to some degree. Vincent, for example, is sublimely in need, with the way he swallows and stumbles over his own words and speaks with his hands, yanking on Michel's shirt, beginning on the buttons stubbornly.
His fingers are more precise than his muttered, you and me both. Michel likes the way he curses, a little bit of a potty mouth on the good boy. Speaks of a life lived, choices made, paths walked. You can't take his experience out of a man, you'd do him no favors that way. And Michel wants to do Vincent nothing but favors.
So, they'll travel blind, then! Always an adventure, Michel likes those as well.
He huffs out a laugh and retracts his hands from Vincent's chest only to raise them to the man's face, cupping his cheeks softly from both sides as he leans in and kisses him, deep on the mouth, deep, deep, in response. Take me, it means, take me.
It may be a deep kiss, but as Vincent's fingers reach where his shirt is still mostly tugged down his trousers, Michel pulls back from it, ending it before its time. After all, they can pick up the pieces in the bathroom.
He has an idea, you see. ]
Let's shower together. [ His voice is dark and a little bit hoarse, reflecting how he's at least half-hard now. No better time to get naked! ] I want to touch you all over.
no subject
There's a choice, yeah, and then there are decades lived and time before that, too.
So he stays still and when Michel cups his face and leans in for another kiss, he kisses him back, hunger beginning to claw at him beneath all that fucking thinking he cannot seem to stop doing. That's the problem with a slow pace, obviously, it leaves a lot of time for an active mind to start running in circles, flapping and squawking pitifully. Michel's mouth is warm and wet, though, and his hands feel lovely - a bit more of that, he thinks, and maybe he'll --
Well.
Michel draws back and Vincent very nearly grabs at him because God, don't fucking do this to him, it's...
Let's shower says the man and I want along with a promise of more, of his warm hands going everywhere, of giving Vincent's similar space to roam.
Drawing back half a step as well, Vincent nods. Thinks, fine, fine, naked, let's just and pulls his shirt off, dropping it over a nearby chair and baring the two big, golden sunflowers tattooed onto his back on the right side. It was an utter bitch, getting them done and an even greater bitch afterwards, having to deal with Timm calling him das Blumenmädchen for about half a month because the man has cocaine instead of an actual attention span.
In any case, Vincent flaunts it now as he does in general when he's out - even getting taunted over it hasn't managed to make him feel truly ashamed.
What's more, he's pretty sure Michel will understand what he sees and the thought makes his heart feel almost impossibly light. ]
no subject
So he smiles, lets his eyes take in the flowers that grow along his spine, thinking it's fitting that this man, who rules dark rooms and back alleys hides such fragile lines and soft colors underneath his clothes. You will have to be very intimate with him to see them, Michel means, really see them, right? More than flashing them in a crowd. More than collapsing on top of them after sex.
Like this, here, now, transitioning from one context to another, when they're both a bit vulnerable and licking each other's taste off their own lips, taking with them what they can. Himself, Michel is closer to fully hard now than the opposite, he blames it on the sunflowers. He always did appreciate a good florist's work. Also in 2D.
Shrugging out of his own shirt after flicking the last couple of buttons open, he walks by Vincent completely devoid of insecurity. He has the body of a man in his early 60s, certainly and nothing wrong with that(!), but he is also well-trimmed, well-kept and elegantly put together beneath his clothes, there's nothing he won't with a certain sense of vain pride put on display. Vincent is younger and has a striking, charismatic appearance that no one but Elio, perhaps, can live up to, so Michel won't try. He simply thinks they fit together well, Vincent and him. And he's excited to try, feel exactly how well they connect. On the physical.
Breathing deep into his lungs, chest heaving, he gives Vincent a long look over one shoulder before entering the huge bathroom on the other side of the hallway. There's appreciation of his frail lines and his slim build and his long, long limbs in Michel's gaze. The sunflowers are out of view from this angle.
Outside, it rains. Would you look at that! ]
This way to pleasure, young man!