1/27/03

Disclaimers: These characters belong to Anne Rice; although I have to say that she doesn’t take very good care of them

Spoilers: None. Just a slice of life/Slash spec between Louis and Lestat.

Warnings: the above being said, this spec does contain M/M consensual vampire sex.

Sometimes it’s hard; a ramming sort of heat, an uncontrolled passion that acts as though it’s been building for centuries—something that cannot be controlled. On nights like that, there is no such thing as foreplay, no tender caresses or soft words—we are like animals in heat, tearing at each other with an urgency that neither of us understands.

It can start with a simple change in atmosphere; a change of the winds from North to Northeast, of the room suddenly feeling too hot and cramped—the feeling that without each other we are suddenly doomed, and must react to this immediately. We must become one before the world can end, before God and His angels can come down and take this from us, this love that we’ve earned after centuries of failed attempts.

And it will suddenly hit both of us like some kind of hurricane—resulting in a hurried race to whatever surface is available, ripping through buttons and zippers and other barriers, grasping, pulling, crying; our lips and hands leaving bruises on each other’s bodies, our needs immediate and urgent.

We fight for supremacy on those nights, conquering each other again and again, fighting to see who can be the victor in our passion-play, to see who can hold out the longest or fight the hardest. It’s hot and fast, takes hours, and neither of us ever wins.

We plunge into each other like refugees separated from food and water for too long, like creatures deprived of all sustenance—we leave many accounts of <i>le petit mort</i> on the night, leaving whatever room we were in when the storm hit looking as though some sort of bomb went off in it.

And it will end as passionately and oddly as it started, falling away from each other, hearts beating as though they will burst from our ribcages, lips stained with blood. The room positively throbs with heat, our passion spent for one more night.

But these are not the nights that, wonderful that they are, I will carry within my heart for as long as I live. No, these are not those.

The nights when I come in late, when we haven’t spoken all night long, and I find him sitting in a dark parlour, a handful of candles lighting the room so that he can read; his lovely hair shining in that soft, glow, his eyes moving quickly over the words on the page.

Where I hang up my coat, kick off my boots, and quietly lie down on the divan, my head coming to read in his lap, forcing him to move the book upwards, rearrange his elbows and arms; where he’ll hold the book with one hand and use the other to touch me, my eyes closed, feeling the gentle heat and glow of the candles, the soft caress of his fingers on my face. The feel of him running his hand through my hair, gently untangling knots without ever taking his eyes away from the page.

Where I sigh softly, feeling that gentle pull on my heart for him. Knowing that he feels it too. Hearing him, after a matter of long moments, softly closing the book and placing it on the table, the sound of the book whispering against the wood, the smell of smoke as he quietly blows out all but one candle.

Hearing him remove his shoes and feeling the weight of me in his arms as he lifts me up enough to turn on the divan, to move so that his legs are stretched out along my torso, so that my head now rests in that curve by his thigh. Keeping my eyes closed as he leans down and kisses my forehead, his lovely fingers moving down my face with the soft whisper of flesh against flesh. Loving the feel of his hands against my body, of knowing that he will always be the one that I come home to, always be the one that I long for and need with every fibre of my being…

Opening my eyes to see his closing briefly as he sighs with content, his lovely mouth opening with a small breath of air within that sigh, his hair framing his face with the lovely contrast of ebony to porcelain—though his contrast is soft, not stark. There is a beauty there that I would die for.

A pause, in which I assess the time it will take to walk from the parlour to the bedroom, always coming to the conclusion that it is worth it in the end. After which I slowly sit, taking his head in my hands and kissing him on his eyelids—tiny childlike kisses that I know make his heart skip a beat—I can hear it do so.

I stand, on those nights, taking his hand while he take a moment to take the candle, the two of us walking slowly to our bedroom, the night silent and lovely, no sound disturbing us but the creak of the old floorboards and the somehow soothing and steady sounds of vehicles passing on the street outside.

In the bedroom, the one candle placed on the nightstand, our mouths will meet with a gentle hum, our bodies pressed together, giving off a suppressed heat that is restrained and somehow painful. Our tongues dance together as we stand by the bed, dancing a dance that they know well, steps that are familiar yet always exciting, comfortable but burning with passion.

Hands slowly divesting each other of clothing—carefully and steadily, nothing like those hurried nights; no buttons lost, no zippers ripped, no clothing lost beyond repair. Everything done within this room is painfully slow, the gentle light of the one candle revealing the soft lines and curves of our bodies, the forms that we both know so well yet delight in seeing time after time.

We now move to the bed, bodies whispering against each other, flesh touching with a lovely humming sensation, our mouths having never left off at their tasks, our hands caressing and wondering.

It’s a slow and sensual dance that we lead each other in, our bodies suddenly new to each other, familiar territory explored on a fresh and unknown path. The light of the lone candle flickering on the walls, casting strange shadows on the walls, shadows that show the dance more clearly than our actual bodies do, shadows that never lie about the true passion that is being slowly spent.

He likes being underneath me, to feel my weight on his body. I, in turn, love to watch his face against the pillow, his hair spilled around his head, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight, his long lashes looking for all the world like soft bruises under his eyes. His lips soft and inviting, his teeth shining when he gasps, his soft wet tongue just a shadow in his briefly opened mouth.

The feel of his body under mine as we move together, him pulling as I slowly push, his legs (white, even in the flickering shadows) wrapping gently around my body, one lovely hand on the bedpost and one on my shoulder. His eyebrows knitting as he climbs to meet me, the little gasps that escape from him as I press harder, our bodies developing our own rhythm as we rock together.

The soft sound of my knees sliding on the sheets, the hardly audible sound of my body moving into his, his body opening for mine, the little sounds that he makes as I move in and out of him. The sound of my breathing, heavy yet slight, audible only to the one person who matters, to the one person who cares at all.

I love it when it’s like this, slow and sweet, a lovely passion that threatens to engulf both of us and never let us go, a moment in time that is forever painted in my memory.

Sometimes he weeps while we do it, bringing tears to my own eyes, tears that he laps up from my skin while his own slide slowly down the sides of his face, the smell of them inciting me.

He licks at my neck as I move, his body tightening around me as we continue to dance on the sheets, his teeth grazing over my skin; I can feel my face heat with it, my whole body ready itself for what he will do.

Somehow I am always shocked when he does it, how he always manages to catch me off guard, his teeth sliding into my skin with a sharp pain that I love, my blood flowing into his mouth, his mind curling itself around mine, encouraging me to do what he wants me to do.

The peak is when I follow his lead, my eye-teeth breaking the skin that covers that vein, his blood flowing hotly into my mouth, burning its way down my throat, our bodies moving faster as the world around us begins to blur, sounds becoming unclear, colours and pictures turning into a kaleidoscope of pleasure and pain, the love we feel for each other burning through us in a fiery wave.

When it is finished, we lay together on the bed, the poor candle almost burned out, his arms around me and my head resting on his shoulder.

These are the best nights.