[ Lucifer commands the dance floor as if it were Hell and possibly, by Italian sensitivities, they aren't too far off either, except the other man's bound to know the difference, he rules both. Hell and here, this dance floor, these men on it. The beat changes a floor below, into something fresher and more pop and accordingly, everyone gets a bit excited, hands undoing Lucifer's shirt, someone's hands, Elio can't see to whom they belong and it doesn't truly matter either, Lucifer's getting his stomach and midriff flashed and it's so hot, Elio actually has to reach down and palm himself through the front of his pants. Meanwhile, the other man is spinning around, letting himself get mouthed up the side of his neck and addressed, it looks like. What Elio wouldn't do to be able to hear, the uneven breathing, the undoubtedly dirty talking and Lucifer proceeds to lead, because he's a king before all else, the lucky man towards greener pastures. Someone got gifted a very happy match, there. On all sides of him, people take their cues, writhing against each other. Against him.
Every now and again, he looks up, their eyes not quite meeting, but still registering each other's presence, that point of contact and then, they carry on, each to their own and Elio thinks he wants him like this, he wants him while they're this intimately connected, touching across a meter-deep free fall, while they share something this vulnerable and real.
He just wants it, one on one, that's his only demand. The whole clientele of Censored has to go.
Fishing out his phone from his front pocket, rubbing generously over his own cock at the motion, Elio sends off a text to Lucifer, very brief: I'm going back to the hotel. Follow me in twenty minutes, until then - leave nothing to the imagination, okay?
It's a plea, not a command. Like he said, Lucifer's king. You don't boss around the king.
Then, he disappears back into the crowd, slinks down the staircase, all the while glancing out at Lucifer, until he's reached the exit, slipping out into the late-night Roman streets. He expects Lucifer will notice he's gone, check his phone and allow him a head start. He's usually good about these things. Very good. ]
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Every now and again, he looks up, their eyes not quite meeting, but still registering each other's presence, that point of contact and then, they carry on, each to their own and Elio thinks he wants him like this, he wants him while they're this intimately connected, touching across a meter-deep free fall, while they share something this vulnerable and real.
He just wants it, one on one, that's his only demand. The whole clientele of Censored has to go.
Fishing out his phone from his front pocket, rubbing generously over his own cock at the motion, Elio sends off a text to Lucifer, very brief: I'm going back to the hotel. Follow me in twenty minutes, until then - leave nothing to the imagination, okay?
It's a plea, not a command. Like he said, Lucifer's king. You don't boss around the king.
Then, he disappears back into the crowd, slinks down the staircase, all the while glancing out at Lucifer, until he's reached the exit, slipping out into the late-night Roman streets. He expects Lucifer will notice he's gone, check his phone and allow him a head start. He's usually good about these things. Very good. ]