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.
In other scuffles, Louis takes care to make sure it never comes down to simply matched strength. He creates favorable conditions. He burns those who would pin him down.
He doesn't wish to burn Lestat. And his favorable conditions here are only the distraction he creates with the upward drive of his hips and the snap of his teeth.
Panting, stubborn, aching, Louis shakes his head. Bares his teeth back up to Lestat, bloody mouth and gold-glinting fangs, no indication that pinned hands has persuaded him as he rocks upwards.
A harsh laugh out of Lestat when Louis refuses then melts into a moan. Panting, angling his hips to grind back down against him. Golden glitter and glue-on sequins have transferred from himself to Louis, mingled in the confused mix of blood. He looks so beautiful when he is furious, and dressed as he is now, sheer fabrics and biting leather.
Then, a moment of slippage. The forceful pinning shifts in pressure where muscled, deliberate strength gives way to Lestat using his weight as he moves to eke out pleasure between them, hands squeezing.
All these things in combination: the bruising grip of Lestat's hands, the application of weight and friction, Lestat himself.
It is undoing. It would be undoing if Louis were even an iota less stubborn than he is, and even then—
He still moans through the sensation, gritting teeth, squirming for purchase as his heel scrapes along the plush carpet on the floor of the limousine. Useless leverage. It gives him nothing but better purchase through which to receive Lestat's ministrations.
"This ain't gonna do it."
Denial still. A game of keep away, another old favorite.
Louis still twisting against Lestat's grasp. Less a bid for freedom than it is a reassurance of how well he is caught. Familiar. They are so changed but see how much of them remains, see what is still here even after almost a century apart.
Edited (Strike that reverse it ) 2025-07-24 12:12 (UTC)
Louis' hands twist and tug; Lestat bears him down harder, a tight enough squeeze of his fingers to leave bruises.
The sway of the car that is still driving them, navigating a corner. Lestat doesn't care. They could be anywhere. In a burning club, his trashed dressing room, a space station orbiting Mars. The driver is an insignificant being who has been given a directive to follow. He has Louis under him, moaning and full of the denial that sends him right back to the early 1900s in the best way.
"Oh?" Lestat breathes out, while pleasuring himself in languid rolls of his hips. "I don't believe you."
A passing attempt to buck Lestat off, thwarted by the lack of torque in these turns. A limousine isn't built for speed, doesn't provide the momentum Louis needs to unseat Lestat.
"Fuck you," is unimaginative, panted out while Louis tries to regroup.
Lestat is an impossible distraction. Louis' mouth is full of his blood and his senses are so occupied by his closeness. Lestat over him and focused on him and flushed with pleasure and infuriating.
They aren't supposed to be doing this.
Louis arches up to snap his teeth at him anyway, seeking to draw blood once more.
Louis gets a broad, fanged grin for these words, all the delight and innuendo in the world evident in the spread of smile across his face. Love runs hot in his veins, along with everything else.
And cobra-quick, another bite. The sharp pain of it sends a heated internal shiver through him, and Lestat has ducked his head down to crush a kiss to Louis' mouth before he can think. Bullies his face aside with his own to lick at the cheek mark he'd laid down before capturing Louis in another kiss, teeth scraping, licking at the taste of their mingled blood with vocal sounds of desire, soft growls.
Shifts, intent on pinning Louis' legs with his own, a tangled straddling designed to immobilise, to give himself freedom to move and deny Louis the same.
Louis has been provoked. There is some hot, furious feeling in him that Lestat feeds, and the flickering recollection of Lestat's dressing room, their argument, the fracture of it, is drowned out under the application of teeth and tongue, the insistence of each kiss. If there was a hope of restraint, the intention of collecting himself Louis had grasped at when they'd left the club, it is dwindling down to nothing.
And there is what is always true: Louis wants him. Has been wanting him. Has wanted Lestat for near a century and more.
Lestat, who makes these familiar sounds and Louis feels the vibration of them in his chest. It's a wholly separate ache from the determined fight Louis puts up as Lestat pins him more securely, wrangles Louis through the wild twists and bucking attempts at evasion.
Bites down hard on Lestat's lower lip, comes away red-mouthed and panting and still straining within Lestat's grasp. No sign of yielding, considering the likelihood of escape.
If he wants to escape, truly, beyond stubborn inclination towards a struggle.
Lestat is a mess of bites. Mouth bruised and bleeding, jaw and neck decorated in little bruising puncture wounds, and none of them from any enemy vampire. It is a relief. His affairs with humans are, by necessity, gentle things. Rare that a set of blunt teeth apply themselves hard enough to mark his skin. None of them would hiss vulgarities at him, struggle with him, hate him.
He would whisper I've missed you into Louis' unwilling ear if he didn't think it would break something.
He drags Louis' arms up over his head, crossing them together. It is good and fortunate that they had a limo arranged for the evening, room to play.
"The words escape you," he murmurs, continuing his dedicated rocking movement, eking out friction and satisfaction despite the layers of leather between them. "I know they do. But you are grateful, I know it. Aching with gratitude. Leaking it. You don't want me to have it?"
They are supposed to be doing something else. Friendship.
Instead, Lestat's hips roll down and Louis bites his own tongue, stifles whatever sound might come at the application of pressure in a rush of blood. He is helplessly hard, nothing to be done for it. It is as it always was: they want each other. Louis wants Lestat.
His arms burn, half-healed wounds and overstrained muscle aggravated once more. Louis struggles still, even as Lestat firms up his grip. Even as Lestat lays him out.
Maybe he is proving a point. Maybe this is all play. Maybe both.
Louis shakes his head. Can't open his mouth for fear the sounds that fall from his lips would betray him. Ragged breaths, still twitching towards any possibility of reversing their positions and coming up empty handed.
Old games. They stopped playing them even before Louis cut Lestat's throat.
A heavier panting that warms Louis' cheek and jaw and throat. Half-lost in it, senses heightened, excitable, eyes still black enough to reduce his blue eyes to slivered rings around void. Where they are no longer matters and, slowly, neither does when. They could be a hundred years ago. Louis, wrestling with his shame. Lestat, breaking him of it.
"Yes," murmured as Louis shakes his head.
And then: release. No, not completely, but it might feel like freedom after how tightly locked down Louis has been when the pressure comes up off one of his arms. Lestat, reaching for the fastenings of his own pants, wanting more, even if more is just the relative freedom of being to fuck against Louis properly.
Confident he can re-wrangle him. Willing to give him a chance at alteration. Greedy for whatever he might choose to do, or not do. All of these things.
A beat before it properly registers, and then Louis is grabbing for him, at him. Comes up panting, breath ragged, to grip Lestat by the face. No moderation, claws pricking skin and drawing little beads of blood up around his fingertips.
Almost, almost, spits some obscenity. But there is a greater temptation.
Louis kisses him so hard the force of it splits his own lip.
A whine is muffled into the crushing kiss, a thrill for the bruising clutch of Louis' fingers. Bliss.
Not enough that Lestat is encouraged to let up his other arm, to roll off of him. Stays where he is, bears down where he has him, becomes clumsier with his own clothing and thoughtlessly breaks the zipper in an effort to get his cock out. A guttural growl into the kiss at the sensation of gripping himself, a little relief.
Louis does not wish to give, and so he will make do. He can press in close, set himself against where he feels Louis hard beneath his pants. Rut against warm fabric, skin above the waistband, shameless and needful.
"Fuck you," Louis repeats, a wrecked moan between one kiss and the next.
There is so much else to say. More nuanced, weighted down with all the complexity of their relationship. They'd been managing steady ground for weeks, and now everything is in pieces, melting like Louis is melting under Lestat.
"Fuck you, fuck you," like a chant, smeared against bloody lips. Louis' voice is thick, accent plain, fingers sliding into Lestat's hair. Restless movements, muddled between desire to fight free and desire to get closer.
But familiar, but known, this kind of anger, this denial. Lestat feels Louis' fingers in his hair and groans, eyes half-hooded as they kiss. He delivers a harder bite to Louis' jaw, panting damp and hot against his skin as he aligns his cock against Louis' through the last remaining layer, clumsy but determined.
He won't need much as he moves against him, a rough sound loosed from his chest at that first sensation of sliding contact, and repeated on the next, and the next.
Everything is blood, and heat, and tangled emotion.
Louis feels like he is fraying apart. Anger bleeding into desire, desperation. Wanting.
"Lestat, just—"
Frustrated, with both of them. Lestat is moving, and Louis can feel him, and he can't get his hand free, bucks up against him because he can do nothing else. No thank you, no inclination to give what has been requested, but there is some loosening quality in his body, something that begs, welcomes, invites even as Louis turns his head to bite down on the lobe of Lestat's ear.
His hand tightens on Lestat's hair. Intent to keep him close, keep him where Louis can kiss him. If they are kissing they aren't talking, aren't provoking each other any way but how Lestat fucks down against him and Louis bucks hard up into him.
A small loop of metal grazes Louis' lip. Piercings that tend to go in on the day, heal in minutes, discarded and closed later.
Like these bites, that will heal without a trace. Perhaps not too efficiently, perhaps they will linger a little, numerous and rending, and that will be just fine. Lestat is dazed as Louis' hand tightens in his hair and the sparking tension across his scalp evokes a growl out of him, but also the parting of his mouth, welcoming the kiss he is steered into.
A reward: the scrape of Lestat's nails past the waistband of Louis' pants, fastenings snapped and zipper torn. Palm turned to grasp after Louis' hardness, bring his cock out against his own.
A reward for them both. Greedy to feel him, to squeeze him. He has missed this particular appendage, owned by this particular person.
All their good intentions, left somewhere in the rear view. Lost in that moment on the balcony when Lestat touched him, when Louis touched him back.
Louis has some awareness of it. Can't hold onto it firmly enough. Louis had barely asked and Lestat gives him this, touches him. Is bitten again for his efforts, Louis' teeth at his jaw, moan muffled against his skin.
And he can't stop moving, restless twitches and shifts into all the places they touch, testing Lestat's hold and finding it unyielding.
"Like that," panted out, Louis' head falling back to the leather seat. Outside the window streetlights fly by. Louis isn't sure of where they're going, can't bring himself to care. Lestat touches him and his whole body jolts, alight.
They aren't supposed to be doing this.
The thought slips away as Louis crushes Lestat back into a kiss.
"Like that," echoed, and something mocking in it, a little mean—echoing Louis' words back at him, but also his desire, his want.
Maybe he will finally get flung to the other side of the limo, or out an open door, but now Lestat wraps his hand around both of their cocks and gives a solid, indulgent stroke, root to tip, pushing back against the hand in his hair to deny a kiss, to be able to look at Louis' face.
He loves him. Loves him so much. Wants him to be safe and well and happy, and Lestat has no control over these things, he is certain, no say in it. Louis prancing about, picking fights, not telling him—
He has this, at least. This affect, he has on him. He strokes him again, fucks through his hand.
It doesn't go unnoticed, the tone in Lestat's voice. It cuts. Needles. Louis feels himself flushing, hot burning hotter. Shame. Stung over the mockery, hurt that feeds annoyance, frustration. Stokes the feverish, stubborn movement of his body, the snap of teeth up after Lestat's withdrawing mouth. Audible sound of teeth, gold flashing up at Lestat from bared fangs.
Can't catch his breath. A flash of consideration: Lestat has fucked mortal after mortal after mortal, and there has been no one for Louis but Lestat. If they aren't kissing it is harder to bite back the sounds Lestat is dragging out of him as he grips them both, moves into the tight circle of his hand.
Louis' fingers twist in his hair. Pulling. Everything is heat and blood and pain and pleasure and Louis feels like they are burning. Burning together.
"Don't fuckin' do that."
But it is all they do. Old games. Winding each other up. Lestat had taken to it the very first moment they'd met, needling and pushing.
Louis pulls his hair, Lestat let's out a hoarse grunt of pain, but there is too much light in his eyes, mouth curved in a smile. It is painful, and it is enjoyed.
"Don't tell me what to do," breathed out, unceasing in the way he strokes them, watching him, eyes slivers beneath lashes in messily applied mascara. "It will only end in disappointment."
But this doesn't have to. A moment where pleasure ripples towards something building, Lestat's expression flickering, nails sinking deeper against where he has Louis' forearm pinned. The driver is not paid enough for how aware he must be of the noises coming from the car, the slight rock of the vehicle he has to guard against.
Words said in the heat of the moment, yes. But words that will linger. Louis will hold onto them. Don't tell me what to do. weighed against Ask it of me, if it is keeping you from me. That's all. Uncharitable. But its in his nature, to doubt. To hold something painful close to the chest and let it fester, burn to fever.
Then they lance it. Then they find their way.
Or they did. These days, they haven't quite managed—
"Kiss me," he pushes, orders, demands.
They'd spent lifetimes kissing each other. Nights where Louis would have been content to do nothing else but kiss him.
He wants more. He is still struggling. Contradictions, stubborn kicking against Lestat's hold even as he arches up into his grip.
There is no grand plan, no rules, no boundaries. Lestat could kiss him without particular care if it contradicts the thing he just said, pursuing only what feels good. But it feels good, too, to lever himself up, out of reach, putting his weight on the hand pinning Louis' arm down, arm straight, back arched.
Away from kisses, away from biting teeth. Louis can wrestle him back with his free arm. He is welcome to try.
"I'm busy," with a show of teeth between syllables. Busy, and close.
Annoying lives somewhere at the end of the sentence, bitten off rather than snapped out.
Not a disqualifier. It never has been.
Louis cedes his grip on Lestat's hair, digs nails into the nape of his neck as he strains up off the seat. His arm isn't meant to bend this way, pain spiking and ignored as Louis applies pressure. Pulls hard downward as he arches upward, a full body squirm upwards, disrupting the angle of Lestat's hips in some minor way as Louis snaps after his mouth.
Lestat's eyes blur with want at this little display. Winding muscle, strength enough to break mortal spines yoked across his neck. He stays, lets him work for it, watching with rapt desire before finally— give. Sinks down again against him, arm buckling by just enough measure as his rhythm is rocked off beat.
Clashes their mouths together, feeling it a little like collapse. Earned. Yields to piercing fangs, plundering past them to taste him, taste them both, blood mingled and still running.
Less graceful, the tangle that ensues. Hitched hips, hand moving in fitful jerks. The moan he feeds into Louis' mouth is broken as he starts to unravel.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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In other scuffles, Louis takes care to make sure it never comes down to simply matched strength. He creates favorable conditions. He burns those who would pin him down.
He doesn't wish to burn Lestat. And his favorable conditions here are only the distraction he creates with the upward drive of his hips and the snap of his teeth.
Panting, stubborn, aching, Louis shakes his head. Bares his teeth back up to Lestat, bloody mouth and gold-glinting fangs, no indication that pinned hands has persuaded him as he rocks upwards.
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A harsh laugh out of Lestat when Louis refuses then melts into a moan. Panting, angling his hips to grind back down against him. Golden glitter and glue-on sequins have transferred from himself to Louis, mingled in the confused mix of blood. He looks so beautiful when he is furious, and dressed as he is now, sheer fabrics and biting leather.
Then, a moment of slippage. The forceful pinning shifts in pressure where muscled, deliberate strength gives way to Lestat using his weight as he moves to eke out pleasure between them, hands squeezing.
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It is undoing. It would be undoing if Louis were even an iota less stubborn than he is, and even then—
He still moans through the sensation, gritting teeth, squirming for purchase as his heel scrapes along the plush carpet on the floor of the limousine. Useless leverage. It gives him nothing but better purchase through which to receive Lestat's ministrations.
"This ain't gonna do it."
Denial still. A game of keep away, another old favorite.
Louis still twisting against Lestat's grasp. Less a bid for freedom than it is a reassurance of how well he is caught. Familiar. They are so changed but see how much of them remains, see what is still here even after almost a century apart.
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The sway of the car that is still driving them, navigating a corner. Lestat doesn't care. They could be anywhere. In a burning club, his trashed dressing room, a space station orbiting Mars. The driver is an insignificant being who has been given a directive to follow. He has Louis under him, moaning and full of the denial that sends him right back to the early 1900s in the best way.
"Oh?" Lestat breathes out, while pleasuring himself in languid rolls of his hips. "I don't believe you."
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"Fuck you," is unimaginative, panted out while Louis tries to regroup.
Lestat is an impossible distraction. Louis' mouth is full of his blood and his senses are so occupied by his closeness. Lestat over him and focused on him and flushed with pleasure and infuriating.
They aren't supposed to be doing this.
Louis arches up to snap his teeth at him anyway, seeking to draw blood once more.
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And cobra-quick, another bite. The sharp pain of it sends a heated internal shiver through him, and Lestat has ducked his head down to crush a kiss to Louis' mouth before he can think. Bullies his face aside with his own to lick at the cheek mark he'd laid down before capturing Louis in another kiss, teeth scraping, licking at the taste of their mingled blood with vocal sounds of desire, soft growls.
Shifts, intent on pinning Louis' legs with his own, a tangled straddling designed to immobilise, to give himself freedom to move and deny Louis the same.
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Louis has been provoked. There is some hot, furious feeling in him that Lestat feeds, and the flickering recollection of Lestat's dressing room, their argument, the fracture of it, is drowned out under the application of teeth and tongue, the insistence of each kiss. If there was a hope of restraint, the intention of collecting himself Louis had grasped at when they'd left the club, it is dwindling down to nothing.
And there is what is always true: Louis wants him. Has been wanting him. Has wanted Lestat for near a century and more.
Lestat, who makes these familiar sounds and Louis feels the vibration of them in his chest. It's a wholly separate ache from the determined fight Louis puts up as Lestat pins him more securely, wrangles Louis through the wild twists and bucking attempts at evasion.
Bites down hard on Lestat's lower lip, comes away red-mouthed and panting and still straining within Lestat's grasp. No sign of yielding, considering the likelihood of escape.
If he wants to escape, truly, beyond stubborn inclination towards a struggle.
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He would whisper I've missed you into Louis' unwilling ear if he didn't think it would break something.
He drags Louis' arms up over his head, crossing them together. It is good and fortunate that they had a limo arranged for the evening, room to play.
"The words escape you," he murmurs, continuing his dedicated rocking movement, eking out friction and satisfaction despite the layers of leather between them. "I know they do. But you are grateful, I know it. Aching with gratitude. Leaking it. You don't want me to have it?"
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Instead, Lestat's hips roll down and Louis bites his own tongue, stifles whatever sound might come at the application of pressure in a rush of blood. He is helplessly hard, nothing to be done for it. It is as it always was: they want each other. Louis wants Lestat.
His arms burn, half-healed wounds and overstrained muscle aggravated once more. Louis struggles still, even as Lestat firms up his grip. Even as Lestat lays him out.
Maybe he is proving a point. Maybe this is all play. Maybe both.
Louis shakes his head. Can't open his mouth for fear the sounds that fall from his lips would betray him. Ragged breaths, still twitching towards any possibility of reversing their positions and coming up empty handed.
Old games. They stopped playing them even before Louis cut Lestat's throat.
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"Yes," murmured as Louis shakes his head.
And then: release. No, not completely, but it might feel like freedom after how tightly locked down Louis has been when the pressure comes up off one of his arms. Lestat, reaching for the fastenings of his own pants, wanting more, even if more is just the relative freedom of being to fuck against Louis properly.
Confident he can re-wrangle him. Willing to give him a chance at alteration. Greedy for whatever he might choose to do, or not do. All of these things.
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A beat before it properly registers, and then Louis is grabbing for him, at him. Comes up panting, breath ragged, to grip Lestat by the face. No moderation, claws pricking skin and drawing little beads of blood up around his fingertips.
Almost, almost, spits some obscenity. But there is a greater temptation.
Louis kisses him so hard the force of it splits his own lip.
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Not enough that Lestat is encouraged to let up his other arm, to roll off of him. Stays where he is, bears down where he has him, becomes clumsier with his own clothing and thoughtlessly breaks the zipper in an effort to get his cock out. A guttural growl into the kiss at the sensation of gripping himself, a little relief.
Louis does not wish to give, and so he will make do. He can press in close, set himself against where he feels Louis hard beneath his pants. Rut against warm fabric, skin above the waistband, shameless and needful.
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There is so much else to say. More nuanced, weighted down with all the complexity of their relationship. They'd been managing steady ground for weeks, and now everything is in pieces, melting like Louis is melting under Lestat.
"Fuck you, fuck you," like a chant, smeared against bloody lips. Louis' voice is thick, accent plain, fingers sliding into Lestat's hair. Restless movements, muddled between desire to fight free and desire to get closer.
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But familiar, but known, this kind of anger, this denial. Lestat feels Louis' fingers in his hair and groans, eyes half-hooded as they kiss. He delivers a harder bite to Louis' jaw, panting damp and hot against his skin as he aligns his cock against Louis' through the last remaining layer, clumsy but determined.
He won't need much as he moves against him, a rough sound loosed from his chest at that first sensation of sliding contact, and repeated on the next, and the next.
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Louis feels like he is fraying apart. Anger bleeding into desire, desperation. Wanting.
"Lestat, just—"
Frustrated, with both of them. Lestat is moving, and Louis can feel him, and he can't get his hand free, bucks up against him because he can do nothing else. No thank you, no inclination to give what has been requested, but there is some loosening quality in his body, something that begs, welcomes, invites even as Louis turns his head to bite down on the lobe of Lestat's ear.
His hand tightens on Lestat's hair. Intent to keep him close, keep him where Louis can kiss him. If they are kissing they aren't talking, aren't provoking each other any way but how Lestat fucks down against him and Louis bucks hard up into him.
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Like these bites, that will heal without a trace. Perhaps not too efficiently, perhaps they will linger a little, numerous and rending, and that will be just fine. Lestat is dazed as Louis' hand tightens in his hair and the sparking tension across his scalp evokes a growl out of him, but also the parting of his mouth, welcoming the kiss he is steered into.
A reward: the scrape of Lestat's nails past the waistband of Louis' pants, fastenings snapped and zipper torn. Palm turned to grasp after Louis' hardness, bring his cock out against his own.
A reward for them both. Greedy to feel him, to squeeze him. He has missed this particular appendage, owned by this particular person.
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Louis has some awareness of it. Can't hold onto it firmly enough. Louis had barely asked and Lestat gives him this, touches him. Is bitten again for his efforts, Louis' teeth at his jaw, moan muffled against his skin.
And he can't stop moving, restless twitches and shifts into all the places they touch, testing Lestat's hold and finding it unyielding.
"Like that," panted out, Louis' head falling back to the leather seat. Outside the window streetlights fly by. Louis isn't sure of where they're going, can't bring himself to care. Lestat touches him and his whole body jolts, alight.
They aren't supposed to be doing this.
The thought slips away as Louis crushes Lestat back into a kiss.
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Maybe he will finally get flung to the other side of the limo, or out an open door, but now Lestat wraps his hand around both of their cocks and gives a solid, indulgent stroke, root to tip, pushing back against the hand in his hair to deny a kiss, to be able to look at Louis' face.
He loves him. Loves him so much. Wants him to be safe and well and happy, and Lestat has no control over these things, he is certain, no say in it. Louis prancing about, picking fights, not telling him—
He has this, at least. This affect, he has on him. He strokes him again, fucks through his hand.
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Can't catch his breath. A flash of consideration: Lestat has fucked mortal after mortal after mortal, and there has been no one for Louis but Lestat. If they aren't kissing it is harder to bite back the sounds Lestat is dragging out of him as he grips them both, moves into the tight circle of his hand.
Louis' fingers twist in his hair. Pulling. Everything is heat and blood and pain and pleasure and Louis feels like they are burning. Burning together.
"Don't fuckin' do that."
But it is all they do. Old games. Winding each other up. Lestat had taken to it the very first moment they'd met, needling and pushing.
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"Don't tell me what to do," breathed out, unceasing in the way he strokes them, watching him, eyes slivers beneath lashes in messily applied mascara. "It will only end in disappointment."
But this doesn't have to. A moment where pleasure ripples towards something building, Lestat's expression flickering, nails sinking deeper against where he has Louis' forearm pinned. The driver is not paid enough for how aware he must be of the noises coming from the car, the slight rock of the vehicle he has to guard against.
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Then they lance it. Then they find their way.
Or they did. These days, they haven't quite managed—
"Kiss me," he pushes, orders, demands.
They'd spent lifetimes kissing each other. Nights where Louis would have been content to do nothing else but kiss him.
He wants more. He is still struggling. Contradictions, stubborn kicking against Lestat's hold even as he arches up into his grip.
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There is no grand plan, no rules, no boundaries. Lestat could kiss him without particular care if it contradicts the thing he just said, pursuing only what feels good. But it feels good, too, to lever himself up, out of reach, putting his weight on the hand pinning Louis' arm down, arm straight, back arched.
Away from kisses, away from biting teeth. Louis can wrestle him back with his free arm. He is welcome to try.
"I'm busy," with a show of teeth between syllables. Busy, and close.
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Annoying lives somewhere at the end of the sentence, bitten off rather than snapped out.
Not a disqualifier. It never has been.
Louis cedes his grip on Lestat's hair, digs nails into the nape of his neck as he strains up off the seat. His arm isn't meant to bend this way, pain spiking and ignored as Louis applies pressure. Pulls hard downward as he arches upward, a full body squirm upwards, disrupting the angle of Lestat's hips in some minor way as Louis snaps after his mouth.
no subject
Lestat's eyes blur with want at this little display. Winding muscle, strength enough to break mortal spines yoked across his neck. He stays, lets him work for it, watching with rapt desire before finally— give. Sinks down again against him, arm buckling by just enough measure as his rhythm is rocked off beat.
Clashes their mouths together, feeling it a little like collapse. Earned. Yields to piercing fangs, plundering past them to taste him, taste them both, blood mingled and still running.
Less graceful, the tangle that ensues. Hitched hips, hand moving in fitful jerks. The moan he feeds into Louis' mouth is broken as he starts to unravel.
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