merciful-death:
i-want-my-iwtv:
merciful-death:
His lips quirked upwards at that, turning so as to watch Lestat circle him, his long strands of hair flowing freely over his shoulders. ”Is that so?” Ah, he did so enjoy seeing Lestat in such a way, spread out on their bed, golden hair curling over their satin pillows as he practically begged, sweat pouring off of him, his body heated with arousal. The knowledge that he alone could bring Lestat de Lioncourt to such a state, and that it was he that Lestat would always return to—he reveled in that.
But equally so, Louis did enjoy finding himself in such a position as well, a test of his self control. Lestat’s breath upon his ear near made him shiver. He shifted, craning his neck so as to press his own lips against Lestat’s ear. ”Private concert? Do you intend to reduce me to one your screaming fans? It will take quite a good show for that, you know. I am very capable of remaining subdued throughout…performances, unless they prove themselves adequately satisfying.”
♛ “Is that a challenge, my love?” Lestat cocked his head, with more than a little menace, purposely trying to catch the moonlight in his eye. Louis’ skin glowed in the dim blue light, a clavicle and shoulder rather fetchingly exposed from the torn sweater. This was the pretense for sneaking into the roped-off room, away from the party: to find a replacement garment for the one ruined in flight.
As usual, even given sufficient notice, Lestat managed to delay their departure enough that the only means of arriving at the party at a decent time would be in his own arms. The game was played, the argument had, and Lestat triumphed in the end. Taking to the air, Lestat had only thought to further wrap Louis in a heavy coat, but the inner sweater had still suffered wind damage. Within minutes of leaving the ground, as usual, Louis had molded himself to Lestat, and drifted into a sleep similar to the deathsleep. How it touched Lestat to his core to have this trusting creature grasping him tightly, needing him. Sleep might have been a defense mechanism against the cold, as it happened without fail, so Louis might never know the tears Lestat shed in the sky as he clung right back, breezing through the flocks of clouds.
The chill from their flight still iced Louis’ skin, and Lestat wasted no more time in tearing the sweater apart calculatingly, fisting his hands in the fragile material and making a soft humming sound at the little scream of the fabric as he pulled it away – because it was hideous and Louis should be wearing silk! – turning and unwrapping the glowing sculpture of his own creation. Taking one of Louis’ hands in mock inspection, “You’re made of ice, Louis. We’d better warm you up before you freeze solid. That is something musicians do before a performance, you know, warm up.” He grinned, licked his lips, and brought Louis’ wrist between them, drawing his tonge along the pulse and planting several kisses there.
He sighed, shoulders slumping as Lestat tore apart his sweater—predictable. It was all a mockery of disappointment, of course. He’d become equally invested in this game. The others were just outside this hallway, and it would take one of them a mere turn of a corner to find the two of them. New Years Eve, it was, and they had, of course, come to Daniel’s party.
Lestat’s tongue upon his pulse had him awake with desire. This would be far from the first time they had taken to a love affair in the presence of others, and while Louis loathed public displays of affection, the sheer risk involved with this made his blood pump. He pondered quickly his next actions.
Withdrawing his arm, he grabbed Lestat roughly, one hand falling at the small of his maker’s back, the other tangling itself into a blond mane of hair. He pulled his Lestat back with him then, into one of the many guest rooms in this house. Once inside, Louis pressed forward until Lestat’s back was against an oaken chest of drawers. All the while, he’d begun to trail his lips across the column of the other’s throat.
“Let us have a private showing then, Monsieur Le Rockstar.” Louis used the old nickname adoringly; Lestat always delighted in the use of it. "We would not want anyone else hearing it. I am a VIP, am I not?“ He referred, of course, to the sounds of the party just beyond.
♛ He let Louis lead the way through the unfamiliar darkened hall, heart quickening. Just the feel of Louis’ fingers, the tightening grip, pushed him closer to the edge, how clandestine to be sneaking off like this! He could have wept at how good it felt to be wanted, breathless for a moment as he was thrust against the furniture, those silky lips on his neck searing him with a trail of burning kisses.
"Let us have a private showing then, Monsieur Le Rockstar.” Words, lovely ego-stroking words, Lestat was not entirely listening at this point, entranced by Louis’s gaze and tone, dilated pupils as enticing as the bare skin. Lighting a few candles with a thought, Lestat was glad that Armand shared at least that predilection. Best not to think of what else he had shared…
“… I am a VIP, am I not?” That beguiling voice wrapping about him like a swathe of cashmere.
Lestat shook his mane, offered a devilish grin, “Vraiment, mon ange," and began to sing quietly.
"Have I told u… lately… that I love you?” Fingers biting into Louis’s waistline. Sharp tug, jerking those narrow hips closer. “Have I told you, there’s no one else, above you?” Arching his back, Lestat pressed his family jewels firmly to Louis’s, enjoying the familiar, but always novel, hardness swelling between them, grinding it in.
“You fill my heart with gladness,” growling a little now, planting a trail of kisses along that glowing chest. So soft. Licking the seam of those pale pink lips, until Louis began to kiss him back in earnest.
“Take away all my sadness,” murmuring, one hand massaging Louis’ lower back, the other still locking Louis’ hips tight as Lestat swiveled cruelly, teasingly, as they both grew more excited. “Ease your troubles… that’s what I do…” he improvised softly, two fingers exploring downwards, pushing into Louis’ waistband.
I-want-my-IWTV 