perfectdevil | catch all open post

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( A short sound escapes his throat as Lestat's teeth catch his earlobe, a wordless syllable of pleasure. His thigh muscles tense beneath Lestat's strong grip, and Louis groans; he knows how much stronger that grip could be if only Lestat weren't so careful with him. Distantly, Louis wonders if it's something Lestat even knows he's doing, or if it's instinctive. Proof of his love, no matter which.

His fingers slip down to the nape of Lestat's neck, nails teasing beneath the collar of his shirt. Louis wants to coax more of those sounds from him, those uncontrolled exhales that prove Lestat is just as overwhelmed by this as he is.

And then, since Lestat is apparently so keen on being tortured: )

Mm, if that's true, perhaps I ought to make you wait until after I've opened my gift…

[ It's all going so perfectly his way. Louis is like clay beneath him, responding so sweet and obedient to every one of Lestat's ministrations against him. The gasp, the groan, the cold fingers against his warmed flesh; it's all enough to have Lestat feeling drunk in the midst of it, and as he presses his forehead to the inky pool of Louis' hair against the pillow of the couch, he's a few moments from opening his mouth to taste his skin again--

And then Louis says that.

Lestat shoots upward so fast it's like he's been electrocuted, and the look he gives Louis is practically tortured. His love of gift giving is so strong in might that it meets his gluttony head on, and he looks helpless to resist the pull of either as he stares at Louis.

Then, he groans, and his head falls down to doof softly against Louis' chest. ]

Who is the wicked creature now!

[ He practically wails it, full of petulance enough that it wouldn't be hard to imagine him hammering his fists on the chaise in frustration. The wrapped gift is, somehow, in his hands in a matter of seconds after that, and after he deposits it on Louis' chest he retreats from between his legs with an incredibly put upon expression to take his place at the end of the couch. ]

Fine, fine. [ His entire body is on fire and he's doing an absolutely miserable job of looking like he doesn't want to pounce on Louis again. He crosses his legs in a strangely mortal way, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm as he eyes the gift. ] Open it.

[ Inside Louis will find that ancient tome of poetry he's always thumbing through, the one that has somehow seemed to avoid every fire and every move, every boat trip and every bout of aimless wandering. It had been falling apart the last Lestat had seen it. The spine had all but disintegrated, the gold leaf on the pages dull and tarnished, the pages themselves starting to curl. It hadn't been easy to slip it away from their reasonable library, its presence surely missed, but it had only been away for a few nights of repair before the final choices were necessary: a silvery blue velvet for the cover, bronze impressions for the title and the decoration and bronze hardware installed in the form of a small lock to keep the pages pressed together tight. The pages restored, the book entirely rebound with a loving and skilful hand; the book looks completely new. ]

( Louis chuckles at Lestat's theatrical reaction as he sits up, holding his gift in one hand and running the other through his rumpled hair. He's aching for that delayed satisfaction nearly as much as Lestat clearly is, but the vexed scowl on his beloved's face is enough to soothe that particular need for the moment. But then, as Lestat said, his restraint is more powerful.

The look on Louis' face is sly and appraising, his gaze traveling from Lestat's feet up his crossed legs and chest, and finally to his silver eyes. )

I must have learned some wickedness from so much time spent in your company. Now let me see what you've been up to.

( Delicately, Louis slits the wrapping with the tip of his thumbnail, careful not to touch whatever lies beneath. He removes the brown paper in a wide spiral, giving the moment the sort of drama that he knows Lestat appreciates. But any attempt at artifice vanishes the moment Louis realizes what he's holding.

Or, nearly realizes. He traces the shapes of the letters with his fingertips, deeply moved and slightly bewildered. )

Oh, Lestat, where on earth did you get this? I thought it was long out of print. It's marvelous, look at it…

( Louis turns it over in his hands, taking in every detail of the spine and practically caressing the soft velvet cover. He's almost there, but already too enthralled and in love to put the complete picture together. He pauses, the pages still closed, and looks back to Lestat. )

But how did you know I'd lost my copy?

( ... wait ... )

[ It is clearly obvious that Lestat, as a more than reasonably attractive man, is used to being considered in this kind of way... but something about the way Louis' precise eye moves across his body has Lestat suddenly feeling as though he is the one pinned in place, and without the slightest physical restraint to speak of. What he wouldn't give to hear of exactly how he's led Louis astray, ruined him, had this kind of lasting effect on him. It almost fizzles out the power in his sulk. Almost.

The whole display of the unwrapping has him tense in bubbling excitement. Where he still rests his chin on his hand, his pointer finger taps impatiently against his own cheek as he watches. Usually he would have basked in the performance of it all, but he's oddly captivated with watching Louis' face for the slightest twitch of a reaction in him.

When he finally speaks, voice full of the expected reverence but unexpectedly missing the mark completely, Lestat lets out a helpless and slightly breathless laugh. ]

It is out of print, mon cher. I think the gentleman in the shop thought I'd stolen it from a museum. I had to spin some great tale about an estate and an old collection passed down through generations of my family.

[ His body has relaxed now, at least. It's clearly regained once more some of its vampiric elegance as he leans a little closer, a hand coming forward to gently squeeze the lock and pop the cover. The edition page is still intact; Lestat made it an imperative request that not a single sliver of the pages were removed, no matter how damaged. This one in particular had been close to falling out, but has been repaired with extreme skill. ]

Though, before you wonder how you will ever thank me for taking your dreary items and dragging them into the current century, I have to admit that I wasn't entirely selfless in choosing this gift for you. It comes with a request. [ Pause. ] Well, a demand, really.

[ His smile turns sharper, he's very clearly enjoying this, and he straightens to regard Louis with an expression that betrays none of the vibrating anxiety clamped around his heart at the thought of admitting this out loud in such an intimate manner. ]

I would like you to read to me.

( Louis flips through the pages as Lestat explains, his touch so delicate and loving that Lestat would be well in his rights to be jealous of a book. It's only when Lestat makes his request that Louis finally looks up at him, his eyes wide with wonder, his lips slightly parted in near-confusion, as if he can't quite believe he's heard that right.

It feels as if someone's reached into his chest to squeeze his heart, and it's somehow both painful and comforting at once. To anyone else, it might be such a small thing to ask, but Louis feels as if he's being given something precious, something that he's longed for all his immortal life. Lestat's smile is so brave and confident, but if anyone knows what this moment is costing him in pride, it's Louis.

Words, Louis thinks, would spoil the moment. Action for action, then. Lestat would appreciate that, and besides, Louis would like to pick up where they left off, more or less. And so, heart fluttering in his chest, Louis rests a hand on Lestat's knee as he leans in and kisses him on the lips. )

[ Such a perfect reaction, Lestat thinks, to see him so frozen by feeling and speechless. It would be all too easy to accuse Louis to be a man of few words, definitely not someone who enjoys the sound of his own voice in the same way Lestat himself does, but instead choosing each word with meaning and care. Lestat loves, more than anything else, to be the reason for Louis to search for what to say, and loves it even more when he fails to accurately describe the breadth of his feelings because they're so strong. Emotion in Louis is addictive, and Lestat drinks it up with the same fervour as the blood.

So when Louis kisses him, Lestat raises a hand to rest his fingers between his collar bones, palm strong against his chest. He smiles into the kiss, playfully pushing back with a little more intensity before he uses that hand to hold him away, just for a moment, like a dog away from its dinner. But there's no real power to it, no real intention, and he only holds him centimetres away; Lestat can't possibly resist giving Louis anything he wants for too long. ]

Ah, is that a yes?

[ He laughs, just a soft exhalation of breath against Louis' mouth. ]

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