Louis sportsball watching drabble pls
"Flagrant…FLAGRANT! That was a flagrant, what do you mean— he twisted his arm, what the hell do you need to see the footage for! Bench him, you idio—"
It's not the call of his name, but the firm press of a familiar hand on his shoulder that eases his spiral. He's standing mere inches from the expensive flat screen television— when did that happen, when did he leave the sofa?— fists clenched as he watches the referees debate the foul call.
Only when the screen cuts to a tampon commercial does Louis allow himself to be pulled away, dragged like a punished child back towards his spot on their sofa, and locked helplessly in Lestat's sturdy arms. They wrestle for a moment, Louis shirking his dignity for one minute to squirm out of Lestat’s hulking bear hug and untangle their limbs.
"Not that I don't love seeing you like this," Lestat smiles. "But we're already on thin ice with the neighbors for noise complaints."
Louis, now locked fully back on the television, only spares him a sideways glance. "And whose fault is that?"
"Not mine!" Lestat scoffs, full of hot air and indignation. "At least my music is tasteful— I'm not the one screaming my lungs out over grown men wrestling for a ball."
"It's the playoffs." Louis all but waves his hand in absentminded dismissal. Then, after another pause when he's sure the commercials will continue on: "And what do you mean, seeing me like this?"
Dark brows pinch together in that earnest look of confusion that makes Lestat want to crumple his face and kiss him all over and squeeze his unbearably cute guts out.
"Like…this." Inarticulate as always, Lestat sweeps his hand across the space, motioning generally between the tv and Louis.
"Invested in something," Lestat smiles. "Angry. Passionate. It's…dieu, what's the word…it's butch."
“…Butch." Louis frowns in that terribly aristocratic manner, as if he’s just tasted something unsavory— as if the word itself is an affront to his mouth.
"Yes, butch!" Lestat laughs, accentuates the end consonants even sharper just to cement his point. "Masculine," he continues on, and inches closer with that infuriatingly suave grace, like a cat stalking it's prey. "Macho." Another inch, and he's got his lips just below the tender lobe of Louis' ear: “Hot."
Louis does nothing to stop him when he presses his lips against the sensitive flesh right over his pulse; only exhales and drops his shoulders a little more, becoming soft and pliant even as his eyes remain fixed on the colorful explosions and race cars advertising the newest action film in theaters.
“Is that so?” he finally breathes, only to garner a gentle laugh from Lestat.
“Yes, really.” Lestat bites at the spot with the blunts of his teeth, and on any other night this would have been game over, but as it stands Lestat cannot even be sure that the race whether the race of his pulse is from the avid attention, or the stakes of his little basketball game.
Regardless, Lestat continues his agenda. Oh, he has always loved these games; the thrill of playing house, as if he's a poor desperate housewife, vying for the attention of a strong brutish husband against the All American television. Yes, Louis is ravenous when the game is so close, whipped into a froth that feels so different, so alien to that sad and sulking creature who once haunted the riverside taverns like a wraith.
“So hot,” he breathes against the tender flesh between kisses, worshipful and attentive as he bites and kisses and coaxes the thoroughly warmed blood to the surface so that he might—
There's a jolt of pain as Lestat's neck is bent crooked, Louis' palm colliding straight into his face to push him away.
“TECHNICAL FOUL?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, TECHNICAL?”
Even as his back hits the cushions, Lestat cannot help but laugh at the burst of that ancient-blooded strength that Louis so often reserves.
Yes, Lestat thinks as he eyes the bulging veins along the column of his neck that dance to life with each of his fledgling’s obscenities. Very hot.
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