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.
Lestat's weight bears him back down against the seat, quelling Louis' kicking struggle. Offers Louis opportunity to kiss him, bite him, lick blood from his mouth, and it is enough to draw Louis back from this latest scuffle.
His arm aches still, bleeds where Lestat's claws dug in. Barely registers. Half his wounds healing, the other half aggravated by Louis' dedication to being difficult. All of it eclipsed as they kiss and Lestat's breath begins to hitch, his heartbeat erratic.
Louis remembers this too. Drives his own hips up, nails scraping across Lestat's shoulders as Lestat comes apart over him, and the slide of his hand grows so slick, and Louis—
Needs more. (Wants more, always, more of Lestat.)
"Come on," he urges, breathless. "That all you got for me?"
It would be less disorienting to be thrown into an oversized washing machine set to spin. Lestat comes and he loses sense of up or down, when or where, a familiar kind of unreality he has been seeking over and over with abandon.
Louis' voice. Claws. Movement. Challenge.
"Something you need, chéri?" is breathless, from somewhere at Louis' blooded cheek, the blonde curtain of hair that's gotten everywhere. Hand loosening, sliding wet up Louis' chest over sheer fabric and leather, making a mess.
He has taken what he wants. Here, an ellipses, inviting Louis to do, say, act, desire. More than friendship. More than distance.
Nostalgia, a sudden side-swipe of feeling. Absurd. Nostalgia over the fall of Lestat's hair.
"You gonna make me beg?" has bite to it as well, strain in his voice as Lestat releases them.
A question with a foregone conclusion: Louis is no more inclined to beg than he had been to express the gratitude Lestat had requested.
Still held, secure and caught up beneath Lestat. His own fingers clawing up Lestat's back to his neck, a stall against the certainty of Lestat's withdrawal. Sensing, maybe, a retreat, and seeking to head it off.
A foregone conclusion. Louis will not beg him. Louis will not ask, or take, or act. Lestat can make him do nothing.
It flickers a dark little flame in Lestat, a rush of heat that doesn't know if it's lust or anger. A little steel in an expression gone soft, the black shrinking in his eyes to give way to icy blue.
A shift. Letting up, nearly. Louis' arms are released, his legs, spreading his thighs with his own as he shifts down the length of the seat. He keeps his hands on him, pinning his torso, an eye contact maintained that says he means to do what is on his mind and nothing more. One of them is undeserving and his ego refuses to settle on which.
He lowers his head, bites Louis' hip where his pants have ridden downwards, exposed it. Fangs sink in. Blood runs.
Between them, it has been Louis applying teeth. He could argue Lestat instigated; the ring of bruised teeth mark on his cheek would be compelling evidence. Louis had responded in kind. (Had done what he had maybe been thinking about each time he arrived to find Lestat smelling of a strange mortal, or of a bandmate.) Lestat draws back and Louis observes his handiwork and feels a tug of desire in his belly, the ever present part of him that observes Lestat and wants him.
A split second where Lestat releases his arms and Louis makes some impulsive twist towards freedom or reversal or simply holding Lestat fast in turn.
But no. He goes nowhere.
They watch each other. Lestat puts his teeth into Louis' skin and Louis' mouth falls open, breath ragged.
Indulges. Puts his hands back into Lestat's hair. Arching up off the seat, muscles working as he strains up against Lestat's weight.
"Lestat," falls from Louis' mouth, somewhere between complaint and encouragement. Tremors running through his body, the exertion of trying to arch up from under Lestat's hands, thighs flexing hard around Lestat's hips. All of his body alight, aching. "Les."
Old endearments, rolling easy off Louis' tongue in spite of everything, all this time and distance and change and frustration. Still. These minor tells. Affection, still.
He is transported to the back of a different car. Louis' weight on his lap, telling him he is known, gentle kisses, fingers stroking through his hair. It feels like it never happened, just someone he imagined, eyes closing tighter as he digs his fangs into bony hip and drinks the rush of blood they excavate.
Heart beating uneven, a strange downward rollercoaster swoop where the high threatens to pull him back up. Lestat takes his time, a few long and luxurious draws of blood, tasting frustration and desire. Affection. With a rough sound, he lets up on this bite, shifts sideways, mouth messy with blood as he closes a hot open kiss against the shaft of Louis' cock, then taking him inside, wanting to taste, greedy as only a vampire can be.
This has been a fight as much as it has been an act of intimacy. Louis has been combative, Lestat has been provoking. Complicated. Reason to withhold his own reactions, diminish them, stifle the sounds Lestat would otherwise be dragging out of him if they were doing this any other way, started a different way than a needling provocation. (Than a thing they aren't talking about, Louis' side hobby, fighting vampires, this intrusion on the time they spend together.)
Lestat leaves a bite mark bleeding on his hip and Louis is moving, restless, begging with the shifting of hips and legs, his fingers curling in Lestat's hair. Gentler than he's been, still too rough by far.
"Fuck," standing in for the spill of softer things Louis might say. Pressure at the nape of Lestat's neck, encouraging push of fingers. Rude, maybe. Overstepping, maybe. Says, "Lestat," in strangled tones, ragged and insistent and encouraging.
They're making a mess. A mess of each other, of the equilibrium they'd found their way to after their last blow up. Louis knows this, but they're too far beyond any stopping point.
The pushing at his neck, the tug at his hair, welcome. Not obeyed, but welcome. He is satisfied, barely, leather pants rucked down beneath his waist and spattered in himself, but it still gives Lestat a rush, every time, when Louis wants him. He feels he could fuck forever if that is what Louis would like to do.
Except he is not paying attention to what Louis is doing in a way that directs how he responds. Just absorbing it, feeding off it as he does blood, and the salt of arousal he laves off of Louis in luxuriating strokes while he settles his hands hard at Louis' hips.
Angles a look up at him, lets a fang scrape against sensitive skin. Provocation,more than satisfaction.
It is not exactly where he wants him, but it is a very good substitution.
Growling, desperate, caught between opposing desires. Lestat feels as strung out on his scent as he does blood laced with ecstasy, eyes hooding as nails cut into his neck and scalp, releasing blood that will smear, dry, paint.
A breath of a laugh that Louis does not have to time to protest before Lestat lowers his head again, and brings him into his mouth, and do so deeply. Fangs scraping their blunt sides along his shaft, eager in the way he pulls back, takes him again, a familiar mechanical movement that he can do while only half-tethered to earth, barely conscious.
But he is not somewhere else, now. High, sure, but he is here, and desperately conscious, and intent on sucking Louis' dick as if he will not again for another hundred years.
Louis had expected to be teased and needled and maybe denied. But Lestat does this instead, and Louis has a split second to watch before his muscles give out and he is sprawled again, struggling up on one elbow to keep Lestat in his eyeline.
Makes a sound, in spite of himself. Something like a moan, something like Lestat's name. Something wrecked and furious and achingly fond.
The presence of fangs is sufficient motivation to still some of Louis' struggling, the distraction of movement ebbing as Lestat works and Louis watching the slide of his mouth, the fall of his hair, the flush rising in his face and tries to remember the reasons they had for not doing this.
There are reasons. Louis knows them.
Usually.
His fingers stay caught in Lestat's hair. Pulling still, begging as Louis' breath comes in ragged pants. Unconscious desire sees his other hand set over Lestat's. Claws dig in, yes, but still. A tender link of contact as Lestat works.
He splays his hand under Louis', a twitch, like the impulse is to turn and tangle their fingers together. Or, that is the impulse. Lestat lets the bite of claws stay the urge.
Dedicates himself, otherwise, keyed into the sounds Louis makes, the sounds only Louis can make. Feels he is being watched, knows he is being watched, and makes a show of it here and there, indulging in attention as he pulls back, parts his lips to just give Louis the stroke of his tongue, smears his mouth and cheek down it, the blunt graze of teeth before taking him back again.
Give him something to remember, the low party lights in the limo and the glimmer of gold around his eyes and the sheen of saliva and blood, diffused across his face.
It is good, his effort. Spitefully good. A small, choked moan as he takes him as deeply as he cares to tonight.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
His arm aches still, bleeds where Lestat's claws dug in. Barely registers. Half his wounds healing, the other half aggravated by Louis' dedication to being difficult. All of it eclipsed as they kiss and Lestat's breath begins to hitch, his heartbeat erratic.
Louis remembers this too. Drives his own hips up, nails scraping across Lestat's shoulders as Lestat comes apart over him, and the slide of his hand grows so slick, and Louis—
Needs more. (Wants more, always, more of Lestat.)
"Come on," he urges, breathless. "That all you got for me?"
no subject
Louis' voice. Claws. Movement. Challenge.
"Something you need, chéri?" is breathless, from somewhere at Louis' blooded cheek, the blonde curtain of hair that's gotten everywhere. Hand loosening, sliding wet up Louis' chest over sheer fabric and leather, making a mess.
He has taken what he wants. Here, an ellipses, inviting Louis to do, say, act, desire. More than friendship. More than distance.
no subject
"You gonna make me beg?" has bite to it as well, strain in his voice as Lestat releases them.
A question with a foregone conclusion: Louis is no more inclined to beg than he had been to express the gratitude Lestat had requested.
Still held, secure and caught up beneath Lestat. His own fingers clawing up Lestat's back to his neck, a stall against the certainty of Lestat's withdrawal. Sensing, maybe, a retreat, and seeking to head it off.
no subject
It flickers a dark little flame in Lestat, a rush of heat that doesn't know if it's lust or anger. A little steel in an expression gone soft, the black shrinking in his eyes to give way to icy blue.
A shift. Letting up, nearly. Louis' arms are released, his legs, spreading his thighs with his own as he shifts down the length of the seat. He keeps his hands on him, pinning his torso, an eye contact maintained that says he means to do what is on his mind and nothing more. One of them is undeserving and his ego refuses to settle on which.
He lowers his head, bites Louis' hip where his pants have ridden downwards, exposed it. Fangs sink in. Blood runs.
no subject
A split second where Lestat releases his arms and Louis makes some impulsive twist towards freedom or reversal or simply holding Lestat fast in turn.
But no. He goes nowhere.
They watch each other. Lestat puts his teeth into Louis' skin and Louis' mouth falls open, breath ragged.
Indulges. Puts his hands back into Lestat's hair. Arching up off the seat, muscles working as he strains up against Lestat's weight.
"Lestat," falls from Louis' mouth, somewhere between complaint and encouragement. Tremors running through his body, the exertion of trying to arch up from under Lestat's hands, thighs flexing hard around Lestat's hips. All of his body alight, aching. "Les."
Old endearments, rolling easy off Louis' tongue in spite of everything, all this time and distance and change and frustration. Still. These minor tells. Affection, still.
no subject
He is transported to the back of a different car. Louis' weight on his lap, telling him he is known, gentle kisses, fingers stroking through his hair. It feels like it never happened, just someone he imagined, eyes closing tighter as he digs his fangs into bony hip and drinks the rush of blood they excavate.
Heart beating uneven, a strange downward rollercoaster swoop where the high threatens to pull him back up. Lestat takes his time, a few long and luxurious draws of blood, tasting frustration and desire. Affection. With a rough sound, he lets up on this bite, shifts sideways, mouth messy with blood as he closes a hot open kiss against the shaft of Louis' cock, then taking him inside, wanting to taste, greedy as only a vampire can be.
no subject
Lestat leaves a bite mark bleeding on his hip and Louis is moving, restless, begging with the shifting of hips and legs, his fingers curling in Lestat's hair. Gentler than he's been, still too rough by far.
"Fuck," standing in for the spill of softer things Louis might say. Pressure at the nape of Lestat's neck, encouraging push of fingers. Rude, maybe. Overstepping, maybe. Says, "Lestat," in strangled tones, ragged and insistent and encouraging.
They're making a mess. A mess of each other, of the equilibrium they'd found their way to after their last blow up. Louis knows this, but they're too far beyond any stopping point.
no subject
Except he is not paying attention to what Louis is doing in a way that directs how he responds. Just absorbing it, feeding off it as he does blood, and the salt of arousal he laves off of Louis in luxuriating strokes while he settles his hands hard at Louis' hips.
Angles a look up at him, lets a fang scrape against sensitive skin. Provocation,more than satisfaction.
no subject
(It is good. It is always so good.
It is as he said: the best he'd ever had.
Even like this.)
"Lestat," bitten out, bared teeth that can go nowhere and reach nothing like this. His nails digging in, pushing harder.
Lestat looks so smug. He looks wrecked. Louis' heart feels like it will shatter watching him.
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Growling, desperate, caught between opposing desires. Lestat feels as strung out on his scent as he does blood laced with ecstasy, eyes hooding as nails cut into his neck and scalp, releasing blood that will smear, dry, paint.
A breath of a laugh that Louis does not have to time to protest before Lestat lowers his head again, and brings him into his mouth, and do so deeply. Fangs scraping their blunt sides along his shaft, eager in the way he pulls back, takes him again, a familiar mechanical movement that he can do while only half-tethered to earth, barely conscious.
But he is not somewhere else, now. High, sure, but he is here, and desperately conscious, and intent on sucking Louis' dick as if he will not again for another hundred years.
no subject
Louis had expected to be teased and needled and maybe denied. But Lestat does this instead, and Louis has a split second to watch before his muscles give out and he is sprawled again, struggling up on one elbow to keep Lestat in his eyeline.
Makes a sound, in spite of himself. Something like a moan, something like Lestat's name. Something wrecked and furious and achingly fond.
The presence of fangs is sufficient motivation to still some of Louis' struggling, the distraction of movement ebbing as Lestat works and Louis watching the slide of his mouth, the fall of his hair, the flush rising in his face and tries to remember the reasons they had for not doing this.
There are reasons. Louis knows them.
Usually.
His fingers stay caught in Lestat's hair. Pulling still, begging as Louis' breath comes in ragged pants. Unconscious desire sees his other hand set over Lestat's. Claws dig in, yes, but still. A tender link of contact as Lestat works.
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Dedicates himself, otherwise, keyed into the sounds Louis makes, the sounds only Louis can make. Feels he is being watched, knows he is being watched, and makes a show of it here and there, indulging in attention as he pulls back, parts his lips to just give Louis the stroke of his tongue, smears his mouth and cheek down it, the blunt graze of teeth before taking him back again.
Give him something to remember, the low party lights in the limo and the glimmer of gold around his eyes and the sheen of saliva and blood, diffused across his face.
It is good, his effort. Spitefully good. A small, choked moan as he takes him as deeply as he cares to tonight.
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