If you feel inspired at all to write a snippet today, can you let me know what happened here?
What caused the dramatic music, the red tinted room, the dangerous smirk, the erotic tension, the nonchalant smoking?
Full video here.
As you wish, @awesomefringey! Also inspired by my earlier tags: #that is a baby #who has shotgunned from his mans #many a time
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Habit by indiaalphawhiskey
The room was dark; so dark that it was too hard to tell if the scarlet glow illuminating the sparse furniture really was light or a trick of the eye – its desperate attempt to see anything other than shadow.
Louis leaned forward, looking down his nose at the cigarette between his lips. And, as he cupped his hand over the tip, watching it come alive by the light of his match, he realized, hand to God, he couldn’t tell you what the color of the chaise he was sitting on was.
It made him chuckle a little, the fact that someone could hold a gun to his head right now, asking him to name the color of the coffee table, the carpet, the stage, and all he would be able to do was laugh and accept his inevitable fate. It wasn’t the interiors he came here for anyway.
He pulled the cigarette from his lips, held the smoke in his chest with practiced ease, and spared a thought to how much he hated being a cliche. Mr. Too-much-time, Too-much-money, Too-much-common-sense.
Ironically though, not enough to keep him from this place. Not that anything could; not with what it held inside – with whom.
The thought made him raise the cigarette to his lips again, the drag he took sweet – full.
“Nasty habit,” a voice taunted from behind him.
Louis’ smirk curled upward, slow and satisfied, and he took his time liberating the stream of smoke from his lips, before, “I’ve got a lot of those.”
“This one’s got a fine.”
“Paid it.”
The response was immediate – an unimpressed scoff. “Well, I guess that makes it alright.” Even wrapped in a reprimand, his voice was pretty; sweet and stinging in even parts, bitter like dark chocolate; warm like bourbon. Loaded, just like the sound of the heavy curtain swishing closed after him.
Louis listened for the familiar steps on the carpet, one… two… three… four. “Money makes everything alright,” he said back, unapologetic, over the muffled jazz playing in the other room.
Another scoff before that perfect silhouette came into full view, hip cocked, one obscenely tempting stockinged leg kicked out, just for the hell of it. “Only for people with money.”
Even barely backlit by the red lights, Louis smiled, recognizing the outline of his favorite little number. It had cost him a pretty penny, that black trench coat, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He liked seeing his baby all gussied up for him; liked the way it felt on his lap, trapped under the weight of those gorgeous thighs, loved sliding his hand up… up… up… into that tempting little gap to find lace, or silk, or… nothing at all…
Patience, Louis sang in his head, busying himself instead with dragging the heat of his gaze away from those godforsaken legs and up to twinkling green eyes, because that color – that, he could name, anytime.
Louis took another slow drag from his cigarette without taking his eyes off him. He reached out and caught the hem of the trench coat in his fingers, smirking up at the love of his life right before he tugged hard.
The sweet waif of a thing tumbled straight into his lap.
“Lou—” he gasped out in soft protest, an errant giggle, and the way he had already wrapped his arms around Louis’ neck, dampening his feigned attempts to escape. Louis held him in place, hand solid – hot and high on that darling thigh.
“You don’t want money,” Louis said seriously, into the sliver of space between them. Those green eyes sparkled mischievously, knowing that was the truth, even when Louis added, “I know. I know because I offered – offered you anything. Everything.”
And god in heaven, that smile – it would be the death of Louis one day; much, much sooner than the goddamn cigarettes.
“S’not true,” he pretended to pout. A beat, and then another coquettish little grin. “Haven’t offered me a drag,” he said, already reaching for the cig.
Louis bracketed his back with a strong arm to keep him from falling, all while he kept the cigarette out of reach. “Uh-uh.” Louis said, shaking his head. “Filthy habit, this.”
And that coy, devastating smile morphed into an amused giggle. “Aw, Daddy,” he cooed, the familiar pet name blowing softly on the embers already burning, low and heavy, in Louis’ belly, as he teased, “You protecting me or sumthin’?” He leaned in close then, so close each of his syllables skated over the skin of Louis’ lips as he whispered, all innocent doe eyes, and long lashes, and earnestness, “‘M a big girl. I can handle it.”
Louis pretended to consider it, humming thoughtfully as he leaned away.
Carefully, he placed the cigarette in front of his own mouth and took a long, deep drag.
He held the smoke behind his teeth, and watched as bright green eyes darkened, grew heavy and hooded with lust and understanding. Plush, plump, pink lips parted just enough for Louis to lean in, his mouth hovering. The pretty little thing in his lap squirmed desperately, his nails digging into the hair on the nape of Louis’ neck, and then…
Louis exhaled, slow, careful and controlled, sharing the warm wisps of smoke, his tongue desperate to follow them through to gates of heaven; twist and tangle and curl into that lovely, lovely mouth.
“Ngh.” It was a soft whine, delicious; a whine of hunger, of more, of please, Daddy.
Yes, Louis had a lot of nasty habits. But this one… Harry…
Harry was his favourite.
