Louis need never go to church again for how it feels to be worshipped by Armand, for how it feels to be revered and loved and wholly consumed. There is no time for rational thought, to consider that anyone passing might see them, not when Louis' need feels deep and endless, Armand's name pinging round in the darkness of him.

His hands fall to his own pants, undoing buttons and shucking them down round his hips with one hand while his mouth continues to traverse Armand's body, biting down again just above the pert rise of a nipple, drawing blood with fangs and giving a lewd suck, loud and wet, head falling back as the blood hits his tongue hot and sticky and sweet.

"Don't leave me," his mind answers in desperate response, without sense or logic even as he licks an easy stripe of two fingers at the feeling of Armand's legs wrapping his waist. There's little time to bother slicking himself up but he makes an attempt, smearing the heated blood of his lover across his aching dick, freed now from the confines of his clothes. What's left he rubs carefully between the supple globes of Armand's ass, finding the perfect, winking pucker he's spent decades admiring and lavishing with affection.

Louis leans his chest down into Armand, bearing his weight into his chest and kissing him hot and hard, the blood on his tongue mingling between them as he lines himself up carefully and thrust forward, pressing inch by inch until he's buried to the hilt where he stills, merely grinding his hips in place against him, a heady moan tumbling from his lips.

"You take me so well," he murmurs hot against Armand's lips, and with that, his hips begin to move. "You're beautiful."