A mood has coalesced, calcified beneath the shimmering pool of the drug in his system. Something shuttering up at this first ridiculous claim, that the threats of rogue vampires should not occupy his focus, but now this next thing—
He watches Louis come nearer to him. He has not moved, stance set solid, black platform heels on blood-slicked concrete. Always, a magnetised lure. He would like to be close. He can sense a heat in the way Louis watches him in return, and his skin prickles with a desire to be touched. It should be confusing, the rise of desire mingling with some darker, sharper mood, but it's instead familiar.
Here, a step forwards. Fire scorches the wall, blisters the paint.
"A mistake on their part," he says. "But fortunate on ours, no?"
Consider all the ways it is not fortunate. Lestat's party ruined, mortals scattering, sirens rising in the distance.
Lestat says fortunate.
Louis is so close he can smell the sweet scent of perfume, the sprays in Lestat's hair, traces of the powders on his face. The animal tang of blood doesn't mask any of it, only sharpens Louis' awareness.
Lestat drifts his hand to one of Louis' exposed arms, where a rivulet of blood has escaped a healing laceration. He presses his fingertips to collect it, a gentle pressure that follows this line of red up an inch, two inches.
"What if I had not been there?" he says, head tipped, watching this little detail. His fangs had already dropped in the fray, and stay there now. "You might have been hurt terribly. Worse."
A hitch of breath, Louis' eyes darkening as Lestat touches him. Gold glints in his mouth, lips parting, fangs masked by the gleam of affixed jewelry. The air is shimmering heat, and Louis feels molten from just the press of fingers to oversensitive skin.
"You saying I can't handle myself?"
Low, soft-toned. Unable to help himself even as he wants to sway further into Lestat's touch.
They aren't supposed to be doing this.
Louis can think of nothing but how much he wants this. He can think of nothing but an altar, blood, fire. Lestat's eyes near black, just like this.
Lestat brings his bloodied fingertips to his own mouth, setting them against his lips, indulging in sucking the crimson away as his eyes dart to that glimmer of gold in Louis' mouth. Tips his head. Intrigued. Knows an impulse to push Louis' lip aside to get a better look.
"I'm saying I saved you," he says, and he knows he is being annoying. He knows he is, himself, annoyed, bristling at the implications in Louis' words, in the blank spaces they gesture to, but it feels like a thread of a thought caught in the current of his high. "You aren't going to thank me?"
This scant taste of tacky blood is a sweeter and more powerful drug than any addled mortal, swooning in the back of his car.
What does Louis taste like? Adrenaline, still. Anger, maybe. Desire, most certainly.
They exist in a bubble, untouched by the wail of fire alarms, of the flames licking up the walls. Louis sees nothing but Lestat. Reaches out almost unconsciously, taking Lestat by the blood-slick chin.
An uneven draw of breath as Louis touches his chin, holds it. Is it an invitation? A means of keeping him at arm's length, a way to say no more?
They have been out of sync, lately. Not always, but many times.
He settles fingertips feather light at Louis' wrist. He remembers moments when they had allowed each other discreet, deniable touches a century ago, when he had been so careful to give nothing away, no accidental bruise from a grip to the shoulder, no accidental jostle through a narrow doorway. The sharpness of his nails, the unyielding structure of his bones.
"I would prefer it as a verb," he says. "But you could tell me what it is you do about the ones who I should not give my attention, who jump you in these more convenient places. That also."
Is not exactly the thought Lestat has. A barely formed shape of it, making his mouth twitch, doing nothing to impede the rush of heat it encourages. A sharper breath out, and he moves. His hand turns, collects Louis', drawing it back down to hold as he turns. Moves for the staircase, evading the roaring flames, pulling Louis along in his wake as they flow down for the ground floor.
Outside, the limo has moved slightly, intent on clearing the parking space for oncoming emergency vehicles but finding it difficult to do so as evacuated club goers mill about, uncertain. They don't quite evade notice, and someone will have to figure out what to do about pictures taken of Lestat de Lioncourt and the man he is holding hands with striding out from a burning venue, covered in blood.
The attention is ignored. Lestat wrenches open a limo door, ducks inside.
Somewhere, Rachida is dialing Christine on her phone while a flurry of legal papers are drafted and readied to be dispersed.
Outside the club, Lestat leads Louis by the hand out of the fire, out of the club, through a crowd of mortals scrambling for cell phones with clumsy fingers. Louis is aware of pictures, turning only to bare gold-capped fangs at the bold enough to dare reaching out to them seeking Lestat's attention.
The interior of the limousine smells of blood and drugs. Of unfamiliar bodies. Of a kind of party Louis knows but hasn't engaged in for decades.
Lestat gets in, and Louis follows after, sliding across plush leather. The door closes, muffling the sounds of people shouting Lestat's name. Louis looks at him, eyes dark still, rapt even as adrenaline ebbs and injuries make themselves known.
"You gotta wait for your band?"
Louis would like the answer to be no but steels himself for yes.
Some silent command, then, and the car suddenly jerks forward, blares its horn, the excitable murmur of fans outside puncture with an angrier shout as the limo makes a more aggressive attempt for the street. Probably, Lestat should wait for his band. He is not in the mood.
The interior of the car has a strange unearthly nighttime glow about it, empty now save for the way the scent in the air speaks still of many bodies, makeup and sweat and perfume. Now, blood, permeating, stranger blood, Louis' blood.
Lestat closes his hand around Louis' elbow, drawing his arm towards him, tipping his head to evaluate a gouge in his skin. Without asking, or thinking, he bows his head to put his mouth to it.
Louis observes him as if from far away, time slowing around them. Lestat lowers his head, lifts Louis' arm and Louis knows what he doing and doesn't draw his arm away.
Like on the mangled balcony with two corpses at their feet, watching Lestat suck blood off his fingers, Louis simply watches. Feels his body catch fire.
The application of lips to the gouge in his skin drags sound from Louis. Stifled, almost a moan, tamped down into a ragged scrape of breath. His fingers flex, tighten and loosen and tighten again, knuckles grazing Lestat's chest. A sense of fabric, speckled with blood.
"Lestat," falls out of Louis' mouth.
Like Louis should have been gripping his chin, thumbing at his lower lip, Lestat shouldn't be touching him this way.
He'd been provoking Louis before. Louis is uncertain if this is better.
He steals a dainty sip from this healing wound, a moment of pressure that sharpens, abates, soothed then with the slick flat of his tongue as he'd healed the girl in the car. Hums his enjoyment for the taste. Swallows down the mouthful he'd pulled, feels he could swoon against Louis as his already excitable, already altered brain chemistry floods him with bliss.
His name is said, and Lestat looks up again. Almost a renewed shock—Louis, here, close, his taste in his mouth.
"Do you lick closed your own wounds," a blurry murmur, "so I don't know they were there?"
He tips his head, eyeline dipping again as if seeking out another injury to mouth.
Lestat puts his mouth, lips and tongue, to Louis' skin and Louis forgets everything that isn't him.
Long moments looking at Lestat's bloody face, the slice of blue in his eyes. Breathing. Feeling the lock-thud of their heartbeats.
Eventually: "My fingers work fine."
His voice sounds so ragged.
A true answer. Rubbing away wounds with cut fingertips, drinking down blood after to erase any lingering shadowed evidence of the injury. It's served.
It is nothing compared to this. Lestat keeps hold of his arm. Louis lets him. The car is moving and Louis doesn't know where they're going like he doesn't know what they're doing.
"I handle it."
Reassurance? Provocation? Even Louis can't say for certain.
Lestat murmurs this with his lips a fraction distance away from the next wound he has spied, fingers tightening as he presses his mouth over it. A low purr of an appreciating sound for the taste, letting his tongue map torn skin in a warm curl of pressure. Lingering as it closes up beneath this kiss.
"All by yourself," is surely needling, given the falsehood. He cannot quite get his mind around it, this insight into what Louis does with his time between all his little mentions of art galleries and sales. It resists sinking in.
But he can nip at the edges as he adapts. Insist on closing some wounds.
It is needling. Bracing, in a way, even as Louis feels as if he's sinking, the air between them molten as Lestat tongues a second wound higher up his arm. Being needled doesn't banish any feeling in Louis' body. It stokes the heat. Always has.
"If you'd given me five minutes, I'd have finished the other," Louis asserts. Believes it to be true. "I done it before."
Regularly. But how regularly isn't necessary in this moment.
"Oh," whisper soft against his skin. "I believe you."
That can never be in doubt. His fledgling, who has come so far into his own, who has survived much, who has burned the Parisian coven down, who has acquired a grander wealth than the hoard Lestat was gifted once. Who defeated him, once, ran a blade over his throat and bled him until death, and has survived his own impulses that call for his self-ending.
And Lestat wants him. Wants to push him down on the car seat while the driver circles whatever the fuck city they are in. Wants to move against him until release is located. Wants to drain him dry.
Lifts his head again, lips newly red, eyes still black. "But would the other two that were out there give you your five minutes?" The tip of his nose brushes Louis cheek. "Say 'thank you, Lestat'."
Treading over delicate ground, nettled and desirous and in pain. His fingers turn, catching hold of Lestat by the front of his shirt.
"You gonna make me?" Louis murmurs into the space between them. Everything smells of Lestat. Of blood. Intoxicating.
He'd kept all of it from Lestat. As much as he could. Lestat couldn't hear Louis' challenge, flung into the night. Lestat hasn't seen the aftermath, what takes place beyond the glare of his stardom. Louis had preferred it that way. His burdens to bear. His war, his scuffles and fights.
Louis' knuckles press down, feeling Lestat's breath rising and falling. Teetering between pushing him away and dragging him closer.
Then, sharp: a nipping bite there against Louis' cheek, fangs catching skin quick and sharp and drawing blood. The hand at Louis' arm reflexively tightens, less with an intent to wrangle him as it is impulse, pulling them together, Lestat already half leaning into him from his place on the leather-lined seats.
A cruelly loving kiss, or a relatively gentle reprimand, or both. Lestat has his fangs ready for the potential for response in kind, weight and muscle bearing against where Louis holds him at bay, or keeps him from leaving.
Bitten. A sharp jolt of sensation, distinct from the pain left by rising bruises and the dig of claws. Lestat bites him and Louis feels all his blood rushing up to meet the sting of fangs.
His grip tightens so hard at Lestat's shirt. Welcoming.
What a quick slide from their carefully established distance and boundaries to this.
Louis bites him back, with marks Lestat's teeth ringing his cheek dripping blood. Driven only by instinct, by wanting his teeth in Lestat's skin. They're kissing and Louis bites down on his lower lip and his mouth is awash in blood. Yanking on fabric hard enough that it gives way, drawing Lestat into him.
Lestat growls as Louis' fangs find the soft flesh of his lip, as hot blood rushes and makes slick their kissing. The seams of his vest tear like wet paper beneath the force of Louis' hand, and he is reeled in, a messy tangle on the seats. Shoving a thigh between Louis', straddling one of them, letting the way he is already mostly hard beneath the soft leather of his pants press against Louis' hip.
There are no brakes, no instinct to stop. The sense that they have had negotiations and made promises to one another is white noise in the background. The car smells of blood and Louis, and he plunders his mouth with a deeper kiss, hands gripping his shoulders, pressing him down.
It feels like electricity, the interaction of adrenaline, of arousal, of MDMA. His groan is guttural, muffled.
Had Lestat groaned this way in his dressing room, that night where they'd come all apart? Maybe. Louis doesn't remember. Has only a fleeting thought of it, there and gone, as Lestat gives him a thigh and Louis arches up against it. His back meets leather. Lestat is hard against his hip.
They shouldn't be doing this.
They are doing this.
They are doing this?
A hiss, injuries aggravated by sudden movement, but Louis is already grabbing at Lestat. Ruined vest tossed down to the floor of the limo and forgotten as Louis bites him again, sucks at his tongue.
No thank you offered, only the increasingly furious grasp of hands and draw of limbs, trapping Lestat in close as they kiss, snap, scrape, struggle,falling into each other.
A roll of movement, un-self-conscious in the way he grinds his hips down against Louis, scratching an itch. Little panted out sounds as they kiss, bite, claw.
Nearly a game more so than utility, when Lestat grabs at Louis' arms. Tries to force back the grasping embrace, goes to wrestle his arms up and back against the leather. The application of his strength is forceful rather than the yielding displays he might have dabbled in, those earlier days.
No, Louis is a big strong vampire now. He can take it.
I suppose he thought if he exposed all his power to me, I would never feel his equal and the relationship would suffer.
A theory. Louis felt it held weight. Has thought of it often in the passing years, more some decades than others and then less since the turning of the millennium. Lestat's restraint. Why he exerted it. What he hoped would come of it.
Here, now, Lestat pushes and Louis struggles, fights Lestat's grasp and the pinning pressure he exerts. Not above tricks, arching his hip up into Lestat's to distract as he twists in his grasp. The second time tonight, being grappled by the arms. Pain in this too, but it is not a deterrent, only a new dimension of sensation as Lestat pins his arms over his head.
They played like this in New Orleans, with what must have been barely a fraction of Lestat's strength. Old games, new context. Louis twists bodily beneath him, tasting blood. Biting again, Lestat's chin and jaw, one leg bracing on the floor in search of some leverage as Louis snipes up, "You think this is all it takes?"
In a fight? No. But when it is them, when it's Lestat—
A bite lands painful at the bony edge of his jaw, enough that Lestat hisses at him. Applies pressure, wrestling wrists down against the seat.
It isn't easy. Louis is strong, fierce, determined. He bucks and twists and Lestat hasn't gone to too much trouble to position his lower half properly, nor does he want to, a shuddered groan punched out of him. Still hard, aching. It is all the same thing, nothing inside of him at war with another.
It isn't easy and he likes it all the better for that. So many reasons to go gently in those early days, among them being the selfish desire not to always win so easily.
But he will win, if matched strength is all it takes. He always will.
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He watches Louis come nearer to him. He has not moved, stance set solid, black platform heels on blood-slicked concrete. Always, a magnetised lure. He would like to be close. He can sense a heat in the way Louis watches him in return, and his skin prickles with a desire to be touched. It should be confusing, the rise of desire mingling with some darker, sharper mood, but it's instead familiar.
Here, a step forwards. Fire scorches the wall, blisters the paint.
"A mistake on their part," he says. "But fortunate on ours, no?"
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Leaves it there.
Consider all the ways it is not fortunate. Lestat's party ruined, mortals scattering, sirens rising in the distance.
Lestat says fortunate.
Louis is so close he can smell the sweet scent of perfume, the sprays in Lestat's hair, traces of the powders on his face. The animal tang of blood doesn't mask any of it, only sharpens Louis' awareness.
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Lestat drifts his hand to one of Louis' exposed arms, where a rivulet of blood has escaped a healing laceration. He presses his fingertips to collect it, a gentle pressure that follows this line of red up an inch, two inches.
"What if I had not been there?" he says, head tipped, watching this little detail. His fangs had already dropped in the fray, and stay there now. "You might have been hurt terribly. Worse."
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"You saying I can't handle myself?"
Low, soft-toned. Unable to help himself even as he wants to sway further into Lestat's touch.
They aren't supposed to be doing this.
Louis can think of nothing but how much he wants this. He can think of nothing but an altar, blood, fire. Lestat's eyes near black, just like this.
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"I'm saying I saved you," he says, and he knows he is being annoying. He knows he is, himself, annoyed, bristling at the implications in Louis' words, in the blank spaces they gesture to, but it feels like a thread of a thought caught in the current of his high. "You aren't going to thank me?"
This scant taste of tacky blood is a sweeter and more powerful drug than any addled mortal, swooning in the back of his car.
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Louis' breath comes heavier, watching him suck.
What does Louis taste like? Adrenaline, still. Anger, maybe. Desire, most certainly.
They exist in a bubble, untouched by the wail of fire alarms, of the flames licking up the walls. Louis sees nothing but Lestat. Reaches out almost unconsciously, taking Lestat by the blood-slick chin.
"Thank you? That all you want me to say?"
Soft. Needling. Louis wants to bite him.
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They have been out of sync, lately. Not always, but many times.
He settles fingertips feather light at Louis' wrist. He remembers moments when they had allowed each other discreet, deniable touches a century ago, when he had been so careful to give nothing away, no accidental bruise from a grip to the shoulder, no accidental jostle through a narrow doorway. The sharpness of his nails, the unyielding structure of his bones.
"I would prefer it as a verb," he says. "But you could tell me what it is you do about the ones who I should not give my attention, who jump you in these more convenient places. That also."
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He also must decide what kind of answer he should give to the question Lestat is posing.
His thumb lifts. Drags along Lestat's lower lip, smearing the blood there even further.
"You got a car waiting still?"
Practicality.
Even if Louis were making reckless decisions, they probably shouldn't make out in a burning building
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Is not exactly the thought Lestat has. A barely formed shape of it, making his mouth twitch, doing nothing to impede the rush of heat it encourages. A sharper breath out, and he moves. His hand turns, collects Louis', drawing it back down to hold as he turns. Moves for the staircase, evading the roaring flames, pulling Louis along in his wake as they flow down for the ground floor.
Outside, the limo has moved slightly, intent on clearing the parking space for oncoming emergency vehicles but finding it difficult to do so as evacuated club goers mill about, uncertain. They don't quite evade notice, and someone will have to figure out what to do about pictures taken of Lestat de Lioncourt and the man he is holding hands with striding out from a burning venue, covered in blood.
The attention is ignored. Lestat wrenches open a limo door, ducks inside.
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Outside the club, Lestat leads Louis by the hand out of the fire, out of the club, through a crowd of mortals scrambling for cell phones with clumsy fingers. Louis is aware of pictures, turning only to bare gold-capped fangs at the bold enough to dare reaching out to them seeking Lestat's attention.
The interior of the limousine smells of blood and drugs. Of unfamiliar bodies. Of a kind of party Louis knows but hasn't engaged in for decades.
Lestat gets in, and Louis follows after, sliding across plush leather. The door closes, muffling the sounds of people shouting Lestat's name. Louis looks at him, eyes dark still, rapt even as adrenaline ebbs and injuries make themselves known.
"You gotta wait for your band?"
Louis would like the answer to be no but steels himself for yes.
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Some silent command, then, and the car suddenly jerks forward, blares its horn, the excitable murmur of fans outside puncture with an angrier shout as the limo makes a more aggressive attempt for the street. Probably, Lestat should wait for his band. He is not in the mood.
The interior of the car has a strange unearthly nighttime glow about it, empty now save for the way the scent in the air speaks still of many bodies, makeup and sweat and perfume. Now, blood, permeating, stranger blood, Louis' blood.
Lestat closes his hand around Louis' elbow, drawing his arm towards him, tipping his head to evaluate a gouge in his skin. Without asking, or thinking, he bows his head to put his mouth to it.
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Like on the mangled balcony with two corpses at their feet, watching Lestat suck blood off his fingers, Louis simply watches. Feels his body catch fire.
The application of lips to the gouge in his skin drags sound from Louis. Stifled, almost a moan, tamped down into a ragged scrape of breath. His fingers flex, tighten and loosen and tighten again, knuckles grazing Lestat's chest. A sense of fabric, speckled with blood.
"Lestat," falls out of Louis' mouth.
Like Louis should have been gripping his chin, thumbing at his lower lip, Lestat shouldn't be touching him this way.
He'd been provoking Louis before. Louis is uncertain if this is better.
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His name is said, and Lestat looks up again. Almost a renewed shock—Louis, here, close, his taste in his mouth.
"Do you lick closed your own wounds," a blurry murmur, "so I don't know they were there?"
He tips his head, eyeline dipping again as if seeking out another injury to mouth.
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Lestat puts his mouth, lips and tongue, to Louis' skin and Louis forgets everything that isn't him.
Long moments looking at Lestat's bloody face, the slice of blue in his eyes. Breathing. Feeling the lock-thud of their heartbeats.
Eventually: "My fingers work fine."
His voice sounds so ragged.
A true answer. Rubbing away wounds with cut fingertips, drinking down blood after to erase any lingering shadowed evidence of the injury. It's served.
It is nothing compared to this. Lestat keeps hold of his arm. Louis lets him. The car is moving and Louis doesn't know where they're going like he doesn't know what they're doing.
"I handle it."
Reassurance? Provocation? Even Louis can't say for certain.
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Lestat murmurs this with his lips a fraction distance away from the next wound he has spied, fingers tightening as he presses his mouth over it. A low purr of an appreciating sound for the taste, letting his tongue map torn skin in a warm curl of pressure. Lingering as it closes up beneath this kiss.
"All by yourself," is surely needling, given the falsehood. He cannot quite get his mind around it, this insight into what Louis does with his time between all his little mentions of art galleries and sales. It resists sinking in.
But he can nip at the edges as he adapts. Insist on closing some wounds.
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"If you'd given me five minutes, I'd have finished the other," Louis asserts. Believes it to be true. "I done it before."
Regularly. But how regularly isn't necessary in this moment.
"You don't believe me?"
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That can never be in doubt. His fledgling, who has come so far into his own, who has survived much, who has burned the Parisian coven down, who has acquired a grander wealth than the hoard Lestat was gifted once. Who defeated him, once, ran a blade over his throat and bled him until death, and has survived his own impulses that call for his self-ending.
And Lestat wants him. Wants to push him down on the car seat while the driver circles whatever the fuck city they are in. Wants to move against him until release is located. Wants to drain him dry.
Lifts his head again, lips newly red, eyes still black. "But would the other two that were out there give you your five minutes?" The tip of his nose brushes Louis cheek. "Say 'thank you, Lestat'."
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Treading over delicate ground, nettled and desirous and in pain. His fingers turn, catching hold of Lestat by the front of his shirt.
"You gonna make me?" Louis murmurs into the space between them. Everything smells of Lestat. Of blood. Intoxicating.
He'd kept all of it from Lestat. As much as he could. Lestat couldn't hear Louis' challenge, flung into the night. Lestat hasn't seen the aftermath, what takes place beyond the glare of his stardom. Louis had preferred it that way. His burdens to bear. His war, his scuffles and fights.
Louis' knuckles press down, feeling Lestat's breath rising and falling. Teetering between pushing him away and dragging him closer.
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Then, sharp: a nipping bite there against Louis' cheek, fangs catching skin quick and sharp and drawing blood. The hand at Louis' arm reflexively tightens, less with an intent to wrangle him as it is impulse, pulling them together, Lestat already half leaning into him from his place on the leather-lined seats.
A cruelly loving kiss, or a relatively gentle reprimand, or both. Lestat has his fangs ready for the potential for response in kind, weight and muscle bearing against where Louis holds him at bay, or keeps him from leaving.
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His grip tightens so hard at Lestat's shirt. Welcoming.
What a quick slide from their carefully established distance and boundaries to this.
Louis bites him back, with marks Lestat's teeth ringing his cheek dripping blood. Driven only by instinct, by wanting his teeth in Lestat's skin. They're kissing and Louis bites down on his lower lip and his mouth is awash in blood. Yanking on fabric hard enough that it gives way, drawing Lestat into him.
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There are no brakes, no instinct to stop. The sense that they have had negotiations and made promises to one another is white noise in the background. The car smells of blood and Louis, and he plunders his mouth with a deeper kiss, hands gripping his shoulders, pressing him down.
It feels like electricity, the interaction of adrenaline, of arousal, of MDMA. His groan is guttural, muffled.
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They shouldn't be doing this.
They are doing this.
They are doing this?
A hiss, injuries aggravated by sudden movement, but Louis is already grabbing at Lestat. Ruined vest tossed down to the floor of the limo and forgotten as Louis bites him again, sucks at his tongue.
No thank you offered, only the increasingly furious grasp of hands and draw of limbs, trapping Lestat in close as they kiss, snap, scrape, struggle,falling into each other.
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Nearly a game more so than utility, when Lestat grabs at Louis' arms. Tries to force back the grasping embrace, goes to wrestle his arms up and back against the leather. The application of his strength is forceful rather than the yielding displays he might have dabbled in, those earlier days.
No, Louis is a big strong vampire now. He can take it.
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exposed all his power to me, I would never feel his equal and
the relationship would suffer.
A theory. Louis felt it held weight. Has thought of it often in the passing years, more some decades than others and then less since the turning of the millennium. Lestat's restraint. Why he exerted it. What he hoped would come of it.
Here, now, Lestat pushes and Louis struggles, fights Lestat's grasp and the pinning pressure he exerts. Not above tricks, arching his hip up into Lestat's to distract as he twists in his grasp. The second time tonight, being grappled by the arms. Pain in this too, but it is not a deterrent, only a new dimension of sensation as Lestat pins his arms over his head.
They played like this in New Orleans, with what must have been barely a fraction of Lestat's strength. Old games, new context. Louis twists bodily beneath him, tasting blood. Biting again, Lestat's chin and jaw, one leg bracing on the floor in search of some leverage as Louis snipes up, "You think this is all it takes?"
In a fight? No. But when it is them, when it's Lestat—
Well.
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It isn't easy. Louis is strong, fierce, determined. He bucks and twists and Lestat hasn't gone to too much trouble to position his lower half properly, nor does he want to, a shuddered groan punched out of him. Still hard, aching. It is all the same thing, nothing inside of him at war with another.
It isn't easy and he likes it all the better for that. So many reasons to go gently in those early days, among them being the selfish desire not to always win so easily.
But he will win, if matched strength is all it takes. He always will.
"Say it," he reminds, lip curling.
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