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.
All this performance. Louis wants to put teeth into him again, bite his throat, his shoulder, lower. Maddening, how satisfied Lestat looks. Maddening and familiar and welcome.
Louis can't catch his breath. He is shivering with the effort of remaining still, the grip at his hips a reminder not to move as Lestat takes him in, fangs and all, over and over.
"Your mouth, I missed—"
Bitten off. Louis bites down so hard on his lower lip he draws blood. Keeps some other, raw thing from tumbling out of his mouth.
Frustrated admissions: I missed you. I miss you.
Past tense. Present tense. A constant state of being.
A sweet thing, nearly said, and it stings. Its bitten off absence, its impulsive presence, difficult to say. Lestat's nails lay into Louis' skin as he applies more force to the way he keeps him pinned. As if to keep him out of the way of what he is doing. This is his, and he is doing it himself.
He could say things to him, if they were not maker and fledgling. It seems especially unfair in the moment, when Lestat feels he is barely Louis' maker, not in any way that matters. Why should they not be liberated from those confines, when the purpose has been rejected?
Your mouth. Another break, to catch his breath, to kiss against Louis' skin. "Your cock," he murmurs. "Still mine, isn't it. You don't have to say it."
Long years together and Lestat had withheld from Louis all the power at his disposal. He presses down harder and Louis' restless movements are stymied. Effortless, maybe. Does it cost Lestat anything? They are both older now, but Lestat still far outstrips him.
Louis can't ask. Lestat wouldn't answer.
(If they had remained together, if New Orleans had happened differently, would it have been Lestat showing Louis how to summon fire? Would he have helped cultivate that skill, or dampened it?)
A flush, caught out.
There has been no one else. There was Armand, and it is over, and it doesn't matter now. Louis doesn't burn for Armand. It was never that way with them.
Maybe the truth is laid bare by the rush of heat in his body, skin warming, fever-bright under Lestat's hands. He is touching Louis. Louis has not yet been able to buck him off. And Louis is busy, at the moment, trying to claw back the wounded sound he makes when Lestat draws off.
Scrapes himself together enough to breathe: "Generous now, about what I am and ain't saying?"
Lestat casts him a smile that says: valiant effort, mon cher.
"Yes," he says, as he teases little kisses down Louis' length, like they've only just started, promising him what he's already been delivering. "I have you saying everything I care to hear now anyway."
It doesn't take a great effort to pin Louis. Age and power aside, Lestat always has the advantage of leverage, and also of intent. Louis, he is sure, does not really want to escape him, and he ardently wants to keep Louis where he is. And so he can feel it, the way his muscles twitch, the dedicated thump of his heart, the shiver in his voice. Saying all that Louis will not. It is almost nostalgic.
He bows his head, licks along another hot stripe of contact, takes him in again with a pulling swallow.
As much as they have changed, they are still the same. The quality of their desire, the way they want each other. Lestat reading that in him still, easy. No need to touch his mind. Lestat knows Louis, all that he was and all that he is.
Easy to twist claws into each other. Easy for this too, for Lestat to unravel Louis even as he hisses and spits and snarls through the entire process.
Argument strangles in his throat as Lestat reapplies his mouth. As Louis' fingers spasm, tighten, loosen, tighten again in his hair, encouraging.
"You imagining things now?" Louis breathes out, frustrated, affectionate. Lestat has levered his weight down, harder over his thighs, but the tremors running through his body continue. Endurance fraying.
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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.
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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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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?"
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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(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.
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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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Louis can't catch his breath. He is shivering with the effort of remaining still, the grip at his hips a reminder not to move as Lestat takes him in, fangs and all, over and over.
"Your mouth, I missed—"
Bitten off. Louis bites down so hard on his lower lip he draws blood. Keeps some other, raw thing from tumbling out of his mouth.
Frustrated admissions: I missed you. I miss you.
Past tense. Present tense. A constant state of being.
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A sweet thing, nearly said, and it stings. Its bitten off absence, its impulsive presence, difficult to say. Lestat's nails lay into Louis' skin as he applies more force to the way he keeps him pinned. As if to keep him out of the way of what he is doing. This is his, and he is doing it himself.
He could say things to him, if they were not maker and fledgling. It seems especially unfair in the moment, when Lestat feels he is barely Louis' maker, not in any way that matters. Why should they not be liberated from those confines, when the purpose has been rejected?
Your mouth. Another break, to catch his breath, to kiss against Louis' skin. "Your cock," he murmurs. "Still mine, isn't it. You don't have to say it."
Louis won't, anyway.
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Louis can't ask. Lestat wouldn't answer.
(If they had remained together, if New Orleans had happened differently, would it have been Lestat showing Louis how to summon fire? Would he have helped cultivate that skill, or dampened it?)
A flush, caught out.
There has been no one else. There was Armand, and it is over, and it doesn't matter now. Louis doesn't burn for Armand. It was never that way with them.
Maybe the truth is laid bare by the rush of heat in his body, skin warming, fever-bright under Lestat's hands. He is touching Louis. Louis has not yet been able to buck him off. And Louis is busy, at the moment, trying to claw back the wounded sound he makes when Lestat draws off.
Scrapes himself together enough to breathe: "Generous now, about what I am and ain't saying?"
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"Yes," he says, as he teases little kisses down Louis' length, like they've only just started, promising him what he's already been delivering. "I have you saying everything I care to hear now anyway."
It doesn't take a great effort to pin Louis. Age and power aside, Lestat always has the advantage of leverage, and also of intent. Louis, he is sure, does not really want to escape him, and he ardently wants to keep Louis where he is. And so he can feel it, the way his muscles twitch, the dedicated thump of his heart, the shiver in his voice. Saying all that Louis will not. It is almost nostalgic.
He bows his head, licks along another hot stripe of contact, takes him in again with a pulling swallow.
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As much as they have changed, they are still the same. The quality of their desire, the way they want each other. Lestat reading that in him still, easy. No need to touch his mind. Lestat knows Louis, all that he was and all that he is.
Easy to twist claws into each other. Easy for this too, for Lestat to unravel Louis even as he hisses and spits and snarls through the entire process.
Argument strangles in his throat as Lestat reapplies his mouth. As Louis' fingers spasm, tighten, loosen, tighten again in his hair, encouraging.
"You imagining things now?" Louis breathes out, frustrated, affectionate. Lestat has levered his weight down, harder over his thighs, but the tremors running through his body continue. Endurance fraying.
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