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.
A flash of a look, icy and cutting, but Lestat is unwilling to break from this task as he feels Louis' will begin to fray under his hands. Tasting it, swallowed down, the salty precursor. And besides,
he's very attractive when he is a little cruel, in words, in his twisting hands. That and the sound of him and the taste of him all working together to warm Lestat's blood all over again, to send it in hot rivers through his body.
He wants more. Wants to climb over Louis and fuck him properly. Wants to lay with him after and then fuck him again. Insane with want and so, maybe he is imagining things. Imagining Louis feels the same.
He works him still, feeling an impulse to see him off before Lestat is a whole new mess. Louis, withholding still.
Satisfaction, awareness of hitting a nerve. Louis can't bite him; he digs claws in any way he can.
Doesn't matter. Struggling against the inevitable. Against falling back into Lestat, when he is already caught up beneath him.
His fingers scrape along Lestat's scalp. Gives up one hand gripping Lestat's hair to fling an arm across his face. (Old habit. Shades of New Orleans.) A passing, useless attempt at hiding, masking the sounds Lestat pulls from him.
Maybe if Lestat drew off again, spoke, exchanged a few barbs, it'd give Louis time to catch his breath. Regroup. Stave off the inevitable. But Lestat doesn't take the bait, and Louis comes, breaks apart, head snapping back against the seat.
Pulling on Lestat's hair, not to push him down but the urge him up. Unconscious desire, begging Lestat up to him.
Lestat gives a rough, satisfied groan as Louis shudders his way through the inevitable, staying attentive, taking it all until there is none left and Louis is tugging at him, urging him. He lifts his head, releasing him, eyes dark and hazy, and moves, slithering up Louis' body.
No more dedicated pinning, just his weight, incidental, braced against Louis or the car seat beside him. He noses close, heedless of sticky blood, sweat, saliva.
Strange, how Lestat remains draped over him, but the sensation of being pinned has gone. Hazy awareness of Lestat's strength, how he wields it, how he hid it, drifts through Louis' mind.
A shade of a scowl on his face as Lestat speaks. Louis feels wrung out, but not so much so that he doesn't find some annoyance for this needling.
He kisses Lestat anyway.
Bad form to encourage him, but Louis has made so many bad decisions. He can make one more. He can kiss Lestat properly, no bruising or snarling. He licks into his mouth, tastes all that they've done together. Indulges. Kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Can think of no compelling reason to stop.
The beginnings of a chuckle taper off as he is kissed, and there are no bites, no snags. Soothing, instead, the brush of lips and tongue. Lacerations and piercing wounds have closed, mostly, leaving behind reddish spots and grazes, tingling sensitivity, and Lestat settles against him, a little beside him, putting the narrow real estate of the seating to the test.
He lays a hand on Louis' chest as he is kissed, as he answers it in kind. Expresses some tension in the way sheer fabric is gathered in a fist, just to hold.
Occurs to him midway through that this is special. Unexpected. It may feel like the most natural of things, but it has been so long. A gives a soft sound, collecting himself, kisses Louis all the more thoroughly.
But the fight drains out of Louis as they kiss. Lestat fits in alongside and over him just as he always has, and the seat is narrow but so was their coffin once. They find balance. Louis' hand tangles more fully into Lestat's hair, cupping his skull, keeping him close.
Their hearts beat together, perfectly synced through the rise and now the fall of their clash.
Louis drinks the sound Lestat makes. Wants to hear another, hear it again. He can taste himself, his blood, some chemical, in Lestat's mouth. Licks after all of it, trading heavy breaths back and forth.
It's been such a long time. But Louis falls into him just the same. He keeps Lestat caught close.
If they keep kissing, maybe they simply never have to talk about anything at all ever again.
He'd had some plans to say some things. Had thought of them while he was occupied. Did Armand, for instance, ever get such a reaction, or did he just hang his mouth open like catching flies? Would Louis like to discuss the specifics about what he's been missing?
But Louis is kissing him, tasting him, holding him like no one else presumes to. Leaving wounds no one else could. Sharp words set aside and Lestat breathes out slow through his nose and dreamily kisses back as the car roves around the streets without real purpose beyond staying in motion.
Louis doesn't make the prospect of withdraw easy, the way he holds him. When the kisses do break, Lestat is kept caught, their mouths a fraction away from each other. What is he imagining now? Something like he had hallucinated in New Orleans?
He runs a finger down Louis' healing cheek, letting his nail dimple the skin without scraping it.
Stings all the more for it, gentle instead of accusatory, prompting for an answer Louis doesn't have.
What is he doing?
A question striking at the moment, prompting immediate self examination of their entanglement, Louis' part in it.
Louis' expression flickers, hurt, lost, and then shutters. Feels caught out. It loosens his grip, but doesn't drop his hands from where they rest on Lestat's body, tangle in his hair.
"What am I doing?" He repeats, quieter, gathering tension is his body signaling movement. A fresh bid for freedom, perhaps more successful this time despite their states of relative undress.
"Mm," is a sound like, yes, that's what I said. And a delayed sense of movement beneath him, and Lestat sinks a little further back against the seat so that Louis can wriggle out from under him if he so desires. Boneless, suddenly, heavy but strength absent in the points of contact.
Keeps his hands on Louis as long as he is here. Palm spread against his chest, a finger worked beneath a leather strap. A leg draped over a thigh. Pale eyes set, intent, well-used to focusing on this particular face at this close a proximity.
"Not my business either," is a guess, not made in the best of faith.
The question is broad, open-ended. Felt directed at the immediate, the kiss, the way they are wrapped in each other but—
Louis watches him for long moments, Lestat shifting his weight and Louis' grip tightening slightly in response. Louis should go. He shouldn't have done any of this.
The urge to draw Lestat back down into a kiss is hard to ignore. Easier when they aren't talking.
"What are you talking about, Lestat?"
Direct. They've fallen into this trap before. Louis skirts it this time, or at least, attempts to.
He expects Louis to put some distance when given the opportunity. Not really because of all of that struggling, which had just been a fight to lose, but because clearer heads will prevail. But perhaps not yet. He holds onto him in return.
Even as this question is asked. Direct. Had he not also been direct? Should he repeat this back at Louis too, and around they go? A pause, and then a restless shrug—
"Well I would like to know if I am a part of your hobby now," rattles out of him, sharp, fast, still whisper toned in the tight space they make. "Blood-soaked dalliances with vampire kind. You must tell me what is more satisfying, removing a head or getting some."
Nettled. Frustration creeping back, despite the good work Lestat had done in banishing it from his body. It's always been the way. Lestat capable of both, plucking at his emotions effortlessly. A gift of knowing him so well.
"This isn't part of anything else."
Just maybe something they shouldn't have done. A car crash on its own merits. Lestat has hooked a finger through one of the harness straps and Louis likes it so much, even as he is annoyed by the questions and Lestat's near accusations.
Wants to ask, Do you really think that? but knows the answer wouldn't do him any good.
Perhaps it's too early to ask. Perhaps. Clothes in disarray, still clutching each other, blood and other bodily fluids still wet on the skin. The question sits restlessly on the tongue as Lestat studies Louis in the cramped little space they've made for themselves in the otherwise generous car.
His eyeline falls, settling on whatever bite mark he can see. His own, he thinks. Did the other vampires get one in? He doesn't remember. The moments between knowing something was wrong and finding himself kneeling over a broken vampire body, a blur.
"How often do they come for you?" is what he finally settles on, wading through the pettier option.
A sense of having tread out onto delicate ground. Louis hadn't meant to talk about these things with Lestat. They have enough worries between them, and there have been moments where Louis had the sense Lestat was—
Fragile.
Not a word he might have applied in New Orleans. Not so readily, at least.
He sighs, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling even as his fingers play at the ends of Lestat's hair. Unconscious habit; he had so often practiced similar touches in their coffin.
"Not every night," he stipulates, before admitting: "But often enough. I usually get it taken care of before I meet you."
Regrettable that this particular group hadn't felt inclined to follow the timetable.
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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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he's very attractive when he is a little cruel, in words, in his twisting hands. That and the sound of him and the taste of him all working together to warm Lestat's blood all over again, to send it in hot rivers through his body.
He wants more. Wants to climb over Louis and fuck him properly. Wants to lay with him after and then fuck him again. Insane with want and so, maybe he is imagining things. Imagining Louis feels the same.
He works him still, feeling an impulse to see him off before Lestat is a whole new mess. Louis, withholding still.
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Doesn't matter. Struggling against the inevitable. Against falling back into Lestat, when he is already caught up beneath him.
His fingers scrape along Lestat's scalp. Gives up one hand gripping Lestat's hair to fling an arm across his face. (Old habit. Shades of New Orleans.) A passing, useless attempt at hiding, masking the sounds Lestat pulls from him.
Maybe if Lestat drew off again, spoke, exchanged a few barbs, it'd give Louis time to catch his breath. Regroup. Stave off the inevitable. But Lestat doesn't take the bait, and Louis comes, breaks apart, head snapping back against the seat.
Pulling on Lestat's hair, not to push him down but the urge him up. Unconscious desire, begging Lestat up to him.
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No more dedicated pinning, just his weight, incidental, braced against Louis or the car seat beside him. He noses close, heedless of sticky blood, sweat, saliva.
"You're welcome," he tells him.
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A shade of a scowl on his face as Lestat speaks. Louis feels wrung out, but not so much so that he doesn't find some annoyance for this needling.
He kisses Lestat anyway.
Bad form to encourage him, but Louis has made so many bad decisions. He can make one more. He can kiss Lestat properly, no bruising or snarling. He licks into his mouth, tastes all that they've done together. Indulges. Kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Can think of no compelling reason to stop.
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He lays a hand on Louis' chest as he is kissed, as he answers it in kind. Expresses some tension in the way sheer fabric is gathered in a fist, just to hold.
Occurs to him midway through that this is special. Unexpected. It may feel like the most natural of things, but it has been so long. A gives a soft sound, collecting himself, kisses Louis all the more thoroughly.
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Yes. No.
Never, really.
But the fight drains out of Louis as they kiss. Lestat fits in alongside and over him just as he always has, and the seat is narrow but so was their coffin once. They find balance. Louis' hand tangles more fully into Lestat's hair, cupping his skull, keeping him close.
Their hearts beat together, perfectly synced through the rise and now the fall of their clash.
Louis drinks the sound Lestat makes. Wants to hear another, hear it again. He can taste himself, his blood, some chemical, in Lestat's mouth. Licks after all of it, trading heavy breaths back and forth.
It's been such a long time. But Louis falls into him just the same. He keeps Lestat caught close.
If they keep kissing, maybe they simply never have to talk about anything at all ever again.
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But Louis is kissing him, tasting him, holding him like no one else presumes to. Leaving wounds no one else could. Sharp words set aside and Lestat breathes out slow through his nose and dreamily kisses back as the car roves around the streets without real purpose beyond staying in motion.
Louis doesn't make the prospect of withdraw easy, the way he holds him. When the kisses do break, Lestat is kept caught, their mouths a fraction away from each other. What is he imagining now? Something like he had hallucinated in New Orleans?
He runs a finger down Louis' healing cheek, letting his nail dimple the skin without scraping it.
"What're you doing, Louis?" is gentle.
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What is he doing?
A question striking at the moment, prompting immediate self examination of their entanglement, Louis' part in it.
Louis' expression flickers, hurt, lost, and then shutters. Feels caught out. It loosens his grip, but doesn't drop his hands from where they rest on Lestat's body, tangle in his hair.
"What am I doing?" He repeats, quieter, gathering tension is his body signaling movement. A fresh bid for freedom, perhaps more successful this time despite their states of relative undress.
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"Mm," is a sound like, yes, that's what I said. And a delayed sense of movement beneath him, and Lestat sinks a little further back against the seat so that Louis can wriggle out from under him if he so desires. Boneless, suddenly, heavy but strength absent in the points of contact.
Keeps his hands on Louis as long as he is here. Palm spread against his chest, a finger worked beneath a leather strap. A leg draped over a thigh. Pale eyes set, intent, well-used to focusing on this particular face at this close a proximity.
"Not my business either," is a guess, not made in the best of faith.
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The question is broad, open-ended. Felt directed at the immediate, the kiss, the way they are wrapped in each other but—
Louis watches him for long moments, Lestat shifting his weight and Louis' grip tightening slightly in response. Louis should go. He shouldn't have done any of this.
The urge to draw Lestat back down into a kiss is hard to ignore. Easier when they aren't talking.
"What are you talking about, Lestat?"
Direct. They've fallen into this trap before. Louis skirts it this time, or at least, attempts to.
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Even as this question is asked. Direct. Had he not also been direct? Should he repeat this back at Louis too, and around they go? A pause, and then a restless shrug—
"Well I would like to know if I am a part of your hobby now," rattles out of him, sharp, fast, still whisper toned in the tight space they make. "Blood-soaked dalliances with vampire kind. You must tell me what is more satisfying, removing a head or getting some."
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Nettled. Frustration creeping back, despite the good work Lestat had done in banishing it from his body. It's always been the way. Lestat capable of both, plucking at his emotions effortlessly. A gift of knowing him so well.
"This isn't part of anything else."
Just maybe something they shouldn't have done. A car crash on its own merits. Lestat has hooked a finger through one of the harness straps and Louis likes it so much, even as he is annoyed by the questions and Lestat's near accusations.
Wants to ask, Do you really think that? but knows the answer wouldn't do him any good.
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Perhaps it's too early to ask. Perhaps. Clothes in disarray, still clutching each other, blood and other bodily fluids still wet on the skin. The question sits restlessly on the tongue as Lestat studies Louis in the cramped little space they've made for themselves in the otherwise generous car.
His eyeline falls, settling on whatever bite mark he can see. His own, he thinks. Did the other vampires get one in? He doesn't remember. The moments between knowing something was wrong and finding himself kneeling over a broken vampire body, a blur.
"How often do they come for you?" is what he finally settles on, wading through the pettier option.
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Fragile.
Not a word he might have applied in New Orleans. Not so readily, at least.
He sighs, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling even as his fingers play at the ends of Lestat's hair. Unconscious habit; he had so often practiced similar touches in their coffin.
"Not every night," he stipulates, before admitting: "But often enough. I usually get it taken care of before I meet you."
Regrettable that this particular group hadn't felt inclined to follow the timetable.
"It wasn't supposed to interfere."
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