Love can damage your health...
     Fingers in gold hair, head grasped and pulled forward and back, tugging in rapid time. Hair and head grabbed in a lightning shimmy. And then...
     And then, the hair moved against the white linen sheets you insist on having despite the fact that they have to be replaced -- frequently -- a shock of gold upon the shock of white among the black and the red. Hair pulled against the pillow, knocked against the padded headboard. Thank god for padding...
     Fast forward...
     To a crowded dancefloor of a crowded club. Not the Purple Papaya Lounge, already yesterday's best excuse, not Lush, London's reply to L'Empereur. Not the Phantasmagoria. This club is so hot it doesn't have a name.
     He was hungry...
     He needed to go out...
     Fingers of a victim twirled in the gold of his hair, grasped... trembled... twitched in orgasmic agony... then fell slack against the wall that leads to the backroom, down the hall from the bathroom.
     Love can damage your health...
     He emerges from the unnamed club, wiping the last vestiges of dinner from his mouth, needing a drink of something else. Valan Montague runs his fingers through his golden hair, mussing the Hipster 'do.
     Summer latenight and Montague is wearing typical Montague gear. Dolce & Gabana pants, spring green lamb's suede, a Todd Oldham shirt, yellow button-down over white pull over. The shoes are Francofile's. Haute Hip Couture.

     "No sharing?" comes the voice outside of the club, a man down the wall from the club's opening. He's partially in darkness, but he steps forward, illuminated by the faded spillout from the main doors.
     "How was it?" Edward asks, dressed in black, as usual. He looks at the people passing him to the club's entrance, but soon gives his attention back to you. "Tell me, delightful?"

     Has Valan ever wore black? It's not likely is it. He finds anonymity in color. Black would only make him stand out like a sore thumb. And ... he's wearing green lamb suede. Gold-green eyes, topaz and citrine, flash as they shoot to the side. "Fucking brilliant," he says in English. Your English.
     He rolls a shoulder against the wall of the club's exterior, rolling his way to you, folding fast within the partial cloak of darkness and distraction. His mouth is at your mouth in an instant, and then he smiles. Smiles, not kisses. "It ... gets better and better," and he has no problem hunting. No problem drawing them in, making them shudder, most often coming in their respective trousers as he grasps them and then bleeds them not-quite-dry.
     His mouth was too busy to smile like that earlier. He thinks of it as he teases out a kiss, flicking his tongue at your own -- you catch a brief taste. More? "Alright... next club's on you," he continues in English. "Dealer's Choice." Unless of course you wanted to go back into this one with one man down already...

     "On me?" Edward grins, shaking his head. "Oh, no, ami, I bow to you now on the best places to cop off your dinner." He leans in and pulls at your lips, licking his own afterwards. Not bad, the arched brow says. "He enjoyed it, at least," Edward observes, grinning at his image of what happened.
     "Still hungry, hmm?" he wonders, slipping an arm around you to walk into the darkness of the alley. You can choose the path. "Oh, are you in your car?" Edward wonders, looking about. He left the brownstone before you did.

     They always do...
     He has quite the little stinger. It's more than just the usual ecstatic twitching, orgasm leading to death throes, as a vampire takes his happy meal and goes about his business. The orgasm starts with the touch of his hand, it froths against the blood he drinks, the smell of it intertwined with the mettalic tinge of blood. He doesn't have to whisper softly. He doesn't have to bewitch them or dominate them.
     All he has to do is touch them...
     "No, on foot. I wasn't going far." And this club isn't that far from the Kensington area. It's filled to the brim with the rich and the beautiful. The line stretches around the club from Wednesday to Saturday. "I figured you'd have yours," Valan says in the alley, and in the alley he stops, putting his back to the wall and giving you a tug to him. "I could eat a bit," he murmurs, and he grins.

     Edward laughs and looks up the stone wall behind you, almost blushing. His lips part and he exhales over them, his brows flickering in the motion. Edward lifts and rests his forearms on the wall at either side of your face.
     "That makes two of us," Edward whispers, nose to yours. His eyes lower along with his canines. "However, I'm scheduled for a game over near the south docks," Edward rolls his wrist so he can see the time, "...and don't you have friends waiting for you?"
     As for the car, you're right, of course. But Edward's forgotten the question.

     "A man keeps friends by keeping friends waiting," he quotes it like an old adage, and maybe it is. You lower your head, and he lifts his own. His mouth is there, but Valan keeps on talking. "What sort of game, ami? One that I might like?" And then he kisses...
     And then...
     There is not that orgasmic touch -- he reserves that for his victims -- but then he doesn't really need it with you, does he. Valan opens his mouth to yours, and then opens his eyes as he runs a tongue along the edge of your canine. A press, but no blood, and then he smiles, his head leaning against the brick.
     "Some night, Comet," he whispers, "I want to join in on your reindeer games..." He wants to see it now. Remember those nights when he would just raise a hand and smile and say I Don't Want To Know? Remember those nights when he would just wait home for you, should you have gone out without him (and that was rare in those nights), and be content to play the wife? He's stronger now and some things change.
     "I guess I'll go drink and dance," Valan smiles it out, gold eyes sparkling in the darkness. "You are going to meet me at home then, back in one piece?"

     "I will," Edward whispers, his voice heavy. His eyes are closed now, and he content to bask in the energy you create. "It's just cards," he adds with a smile. "I'll tell you if I make us millionaires."
     The wall sounds with the draw of leather. A scuffed jacket is a plus. Edward sighs, pulling himself from you, and as if to make his point of rejoining the world, he looks left and right to see the mudanities of the alley.
     "About five?" Edward asks, setting a time to meet. A couple of hours before he'll need to pass out. "I'll see you at home."

     "Alright, Comet," he chuckles. "Five...I will see you then..."
     You back away and he pushes off the brick, grinning. "Unless you lose a million dollars and then... you can sleep outside in your car. You'll have to get used to that anyway, n'est-ce pas?" His arm comes around you, just before you part ways. Valan kisses you. "Have fun, ami..."
     He's such a good boy. He comes out of the alley before you, in his yellow, white and green, like the god of fucking Spring. A glance back, a wink and then he's on his way.
     Next Stop...
     Lush...

~*~     ~*~

     Of course I am waiting up...
     Not because I am to keep the tabs on you, and not because I expect you will be late (although time does have a way of getting away from you some nights), nor do I expect you to come home with a million dollars (though it would be a nice surprise). No, it is simple, Edward. I simply want to be alert when you come in, to see you.
     He has clearly been home for hours. Such may be evident as soon as one enters -- though he has closed the first floor for the night and shut off most of the lights. You can smell the crepes he made and some residue of wine.
     Music is playing upstairs, a personal mix of favorites -- everything from Jacques Dutronc and Francoise Hardy to The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, Miles Davis and something from your collections, industrial.
     He sits inside, in bronze and red silk -- robe and boxers. Jewel tones set off the gold of his hair, bring out the gold in his eyes and the honeyed cream complexion. And the scent of William's cigarettes, cinnamon, clove, hashish. He's such an addict.
     He is sitting, not on the bed but in the living room portion of the chamber, cup of coffee and a bottle of wine at hand, cigarette smoldering, Davydd's book nearby, recently reviewed again it would seem. But not now.
     Valan Montague is slumped in the chair, eyes closed, listening to the music. Listening for you...

     Not surprising, he's late.
     Instead of the judicious time he promised, the front door closes behind him an hour later. Vampiric ears can hear the sigh, the chattering of metal about him. The house is dark, and well, he's late.
     Upon entering the bedroom, Edward sighs again. The door opens, and immediately Edward's eyes move to the bed. No one there. He glances left to the living area where you are. His brows open in relief, and he closes the door.
      "Sorry, ami," Edward murmurs, smelling of beer, whisky, and plenty of smoke. "Time got on," he explains, running his hand over his head. He doesn't look the worse for wear, just apologetic. "It won't happen again." Well, that's not true, but he'll try.
     The music catches him. He glances over, recognizes it, then moves towards you. "You fuming?" he wonders gently, expecting some complaint.

     There will be no complaint...
      The corners of his mouth lift upward. "Have you brought home any winnings?" he murmurs in English. "I will use my portion," generous with your money isn't he, "...to buy my ami a watch with an alarm..." Long golden-brown lashes lift, and green-gold eyes peer at you.
     You are sexy when you are contrite. No wonder sin was such an "in" for you knight-types...
     Valan sits up, reaching for his cigarette, another pull, another breath, and then he stamps it out. "Non, ami," he chuckles, "... I am not fuming. And do not make that promise," Valan smirks. I know better. "You were worried all the way home, hmm? Did you look at your watch all the way home? Maybe I should throw a fit so that you would know how I feel when you are not with me, but this would drive you crazy..."
      Or maybe this is the fit...
     Valan is an expert Frenchman. He knows more than the French goddesses who keep their men in check with the slightest pouts. "I can entertain myself well enough, you should not worry, mon Eduard..." He looks to you, a look beneath lashes, his mouth curling. You should come to me and kiss me and make it all up to me.
     "So... tell me about your night... I want to hear about your game..."

     Edward smiles as he pulls off his jacket and tosses it aside. Immediately, he starts on his shirt, pulling it from his black slacks and unbuttoning from bottom to top. "I was alright..." he begins, "...managed only seventy and a half." 75K. "Benny Bungles walked off with more like two-hundred," he shakes his head, "...went knob-pressed with Damien Menzies. Damien's wife's gonna take her pound from him..." Amazing. He'd not want to face her with empty pockets.
     Edward bends and fishes an envelope from his boot. "I was shotgun, apparently, with my lot." He smiles and tosses the envelope to you, the money falling out in the process. Apparently, the remainder went home broke.
     "What of you?" Edward smiles, finishing up his shirt at your shoulder. With an eyeful of you now, he smiles and bends to place at your lips the first kiss of the morning, his mouth sticky from the alcohol and sugar.

     Pound notes flutter to the floor, some landing on your silken Montague and he is laughing, bright eyes watching you undress with pinpoint deadly aim and then his mouth parts for you, sucking at the alcohol on your lips. He smells of Indian spices, red wine, a hint of coffee from earlier. And beneath that, blood.
     Money splayed against him, he looks quite the Kept Man. "We will have to go on a spree. I could always use more clothes," as if. But he never keeps anything longer than a 'season' unless the pieces are hallmark or centerpieces to a wardrobe. Grinning at your mouth, Valan keeps you where you are, a hand looping in your belt loops, hooking at the waistband of your pants.
     "I did a little dancing," he murmurs. "I went to the Papaya for a while. I got home about two hours ago, actually," he admits, chuckling. And he was going to make you feel guilty! "I finished my night with a little Indian cuisine," as in a man from India, no doubt, "...he had almond colored skin and cinnamon eyes. He smelled of hashish and tasted of cardamon." Valan tugs you forward, finger hooking at the waistband again. "I am glad you had a good time and that you did not lose any money. Now you won't have to sleep in the car. You can stay with me instead..."
     The mouth on that Montague. When not flapping in motion with outrageous statements or sly humor, it is best at kissing and giving head. Really, one could do without the talking, n'est-ce pas? Valan kisses you again, tugging at your mouth with a grin and then he sits back, gathering the pound notes that scattered over his chest and stomach. "What are you going to buy me?"

     The fingers in Edward's belt loops always make him grin. He rocks gently, suggestion there, but when you let him go, he smirks and puts toe to heel, pushing off his boots. "You can buy whatever. It's your money," he murmurs, meaning it. "Just save me the entry fee so I can put it back," in the bank. The rest is play.
     "What I should ask you is..." he in socked feet and slacks only now, "...is what are you going to get -me-."

     It's a possession thing. It's a 'fuck me' thing. It's an unmistakable thing. "Of course... hmmm... what will I get you? First..." the pleasurable mouth forms a smile, "....I will give you something for free that no one else could afford," him, "... and then maybe we will go get some clothes for fall. It is going to get cold soon. Pretty soon, I will not want to leave the house, it will be raining." Valan sighs. "We will have to content ourselves by staying inside..."
     Oh, woe is me!
     "And of course you can have...what is it called? Your bank? Back, Eduard... I did not know you were so good at cards. Was it five-card or seven-card, stud?" Valan laughs. I can't believe I said this!
     "Hmm... you know what we should get...more of that ... special powder..." Speaking of shopping...

     "Five," Edward grins. He needs very little to get him going. A bend of his leg upwards and he quickly dispenses with left, then right, sock. Edward chuckles at you, then quirks a brow at the powder comment.
     "What do you mean, get more?"
     He says, hands at his zipper, "Go look in the wardrobe, in the table drawer. The case is there." The lovely French Empire piece in the dressing area.

     Valan watches you, he turns his head toward the wardrobe, looking longingly at it. It's so far away. Why do we not have servants? Valan settles in to watch you strip, preferring that just at the moment.
     Though the other is still on his mind...
     Valan circles his finger in the air, the universal sign for Keep Going and he laces his fingers against his bare stomach, line of golden hair catching the light. "I want to stay in this chair," he murmurs, sitting up, finger hooking in the waistband of your trousers again. A tug, and his mouth is at your navel. A kiss, a scrape of his teeth at your skin and then he grins, standing.
     An inch shorter than you, he is at your eyes, his finger slipping against your skin as he stands there for a moment. "I'll get it... then you... get me..."

     Edward smirks, his biceps swelling as he undoes the button and lowers the zipper, one click at a time. His brows arch and he exhales as he looks down to the boxers you wear. "Why is it," Edward wonders, "...you dance all night and never for me?" He takes a step back to let you pass to the opposite side of the bedroom and to the wardrobes near the bath.

     Bronze and red shimmer as he moves from you, a hand trailing against your side. He doesn't undress. He doesn't remove his robe. He is going to let you have the pleasure of that. It moves on the air as he does, rippling and sliding against his back. "I have danced for you, remember... ami? At the Papaya... and of course all the lap dancing..."
      Valan glances back and winks. "But for you, ami... because I love you... I do not want to ... cause you pain by not dancing for you. I must say, however, that I would rather dance... with you..."
     You are an amazing dancer. You have even taught him a little. The tango. He is a natural mover, as you are. But you, Eduard, are the king.
     He pulls out the silver case and returns to the seating area, carrying it very carefully. It is more than worth its weight in gold. His weight in gold to be exact. "A little of this, and I will turn up the music..."

     Edward smiles, having lost the black trousers. He's in whites to his thighs, and when you return, he's already taken your spot on the short sofa. Legs are spread and extended, Edward's head tossed back behind him with arms extended. A relaxing stretch now that he's at home.
     "You are good to me," Edward grins. He relaxed, you gorgeous and holding his favorite party favor, while promising a dance and then, well, the rest of you. Edward shifts in his seat a little, adjusting to something even more comfortable.

     He is the gift that keeps on giving, no?
     Valan settles upon you, a straddle, as he most carefully stabilizes the silver case. He opens it. He holds it out to you. You know what to do. You're the master of this particular pastime.
     "I love to make you happy," Valan says, smiling as he hovers above you. "What can I say? It is so .... rewarding..." Oh the grin. The light in his eyes. "Now... you get it ready... and I..." he carefully begins to rise, the bronze robe slipping against his shoulders, "... will... do the rest..."

     A golden snake, twisting before him. Yet it's Edward who's transfixed. He accepts the case eagerly, as if hungry for it. Edward swallows, flipping the case open to reveal the mirrors within and the vials clipped on the metal rod attached to one side.

     The music comes up... volume and bass, thudding throughout. The quick pace of American rock and roll, a sound that suits you in particular, but in truth suits you both...
     He shimmers, your Montague, gold brushed in the low light, moving to a collection of whisky and glasses. He knows the routine by now. Cocaine, with a whisky chaser. The smell of it. The smell of cinnamon wafts by as he moves. Your golden rod, your golden snake. Valan smiles at you. He downs a shot, pours another and sets it aside, the drinks resting on the living room table.
     Valan doesn't say anything. He watches you as you begin to prep the cocaine. He is already beginning to move with the music, just small motions, indications, almost imperceptible. His eyes lid and he is already flushing with the anticipation of the rush...

     Preparations are minimal. Edward's intensity heightens once you move and his lap is free. He bends over the open case, fingers moving rapidly: vial taken, dumped, broken blade used delicately, and thin, perfect glass tube brought out. Only then does Edward sit upright, and offer his the altar upon his lap to you.
     You'll have to kneel before him for it.

     He's at his most beautiful when he is on his knees...
     Valan looks at you, smiling, as he lowers to his knees. He bends, a hand going to your thigh, pressing inward. His other hand takes the glass tube, still needing it. His hand runs over your groin, squeezing as he takes a quick inhale.
     Valan rocks back against his knees, letting the first his rush over him, through him, the music lifting him. He hands the tube to you, not that you need it. Your turn, then he'll take another. He leans in again, but this time, not to snort powder. His mouth moves over your thigh, pressing at the white cloth as he ventures upward. Gold eyes sparkle at you from below. And amid your thighs, a grin.

     Edward grins and shakes his head at you, adding, "No, those are for you." He'll have his soon afterwards. Eyes wander to the near shot glass, and Edward picks it up, tossing it back. Recently filled glasses are now empty.
     "I better ask you this," he exhales, "...before I forget. Do you want to go back to Georg's for holidays?"

     Valan sits up, looking at you and grinning. "That would be brilliant," he says in Your English. He takes the glass tube again and with that smile, keeping his eyes on you, he takes another hit. He sets the glass tube back, his hands tremble a little and he squeezes his burning nose. Still getting used to that. "Yeah," he breathes, breaths quickening, "...yeah... let's go back. That would be fucking... great." Emphasis on fucking.
     Valan stands with a rush, a glimmer of red and bronze and he goes to the lights, dimming them. He becomes the focal point for all things brilliant.
      The drugs move through him...
     Even as you will move through him...
     And then...
     There is dancing...

Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 04:06 PM