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Lucas nearly pushes him through the door and then kisses his neck once it's closed, walking him toward the back wall, his hands ducking under fabric and a low rumble in his throat. The stains and flickering, greenish lighting has no discouraging effect and the throb of the music only makes him want to shake Brody against that shaking wall.

His teeth pull at his ear as he continues to mumble. "Ты красивая. Fuck you into nothingness, милая моя, шлюха моя-"

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He would like for them to be able to take their time, but considering how public this is, that's probably a bad idea... oh well. It's not like he can be broken; it doesn't actually matter how slow or how fast he goes. Brody's still, dead heart thumps twice in response to the pressure on his neck -- that's one of the things he misses about not being dead, the way being touched like that used to make his heart race.

"Please," he says, one of his hands groping back to touch him. "Fuck me."

"Броды... минный-"

Lucas breathes in sharply and then reaches down to pull his hips back to meet the sudden thrust. There's another a few heartbeats after, and another, then he loses his restraint and he's pushing Brody against the wall while also pulling him back to meet each snap of his hips. The sounds, mixed with groans and muttered curses, start to echo off the dirty tiles.

"Fuck!" He's not thinking about making noise -- no one's here to hear. It hurts like hell and he doesn't care about that either. He whimpers, the hand that was reaching for him dropping and clawing at the wall instead, but there's nothing there to hold on to. "Fuck, please --" He's getting steadily louder like he usually does, turns his head so it's pressed against the wall and that muffles it at least a little. He's bitten his lip open with his own fangs and leaves little bloody smears over his mouth and the wall.

"You- are so, дерьмо, so fucking красивый- Brody-"

He lifts up nearly onto his toes to push deeper and harder, his feet apart and straining. The nails in Brody's hip and neck become sharper steadily, his grip tighter. A desperate half-cry leaves his throat as a bruise in his tense arm throbs and his toes curl in his scuffed boots.

His skin bruises first, then gives way under his nails, splitting and bleeding -- his heart beats three times again, then stops. If he weren't eating, it wouldn't even be able to do that much. It still hurts but it's starting to feel good, too, his body slowly getting used to Lucas being inside him. "Fuck me," he pants again, pausing briefly before grinding his hips back against him. "Fuck me, come in me, please, I need you."

He curses again and then speeds up, nearly leaning over top of Brody and panting for air. "Yes," he hisses as the angle becomes perfect and he grits his teeth, close. Distantly he hears the door open and then shut quickly and his lips curl into a grin.

"Come in me," he says. That right there is probably another terrible idea, but he doesn't care. His body's pushed up against the wall, holding very still and bracing himself with his arms, his hips occasionally rocking back, his head turned so that he can just barely make out their reflection in the dingy mirrors above the sinks. It's not enough of anything -- not enough (or not the right kind) of pain, not enough pleasure (though that's no surprise; he hasn't felt things the same since he died, his tactile sense feels muffled) -- but it's enough, at the same time, to be useful. To feel wanted. That's all he needs. Or the L-word, which he's steadfastly trying not to think about. "Please, come in me."

Edited 2011-09-14 02:49 (UTC)

His hand slides off of Brody's neck and his nails rack down his back, catching on his shirt on the way. The words are automatic as his thrusts briefly become brutal and sharp.

"ёбаный= love you--"

It is choked out along with the spasm that breaks through it and he exhales as he comes, yanking Brody back onto him one last time.

He makes a strange noise like he's pulling back on it halfway through, a sort of mewling cry, one hand curling as far as it will go before he'd have to manually close his fingers with the other hand. He should keep moving, but instead he's very still. So much for not thinking about it.

He breathes, perfectly still, frozen even while still half on his toes. Then his hands move up to either side of Brody's chest and simply stay there, holding him against his chest for whatever reason he needed to hold him at that moment.

That's the part he really likes -- being held. This close, he can feel his heart beating fast inside him, smell sweat and something else musky, almost get a handle on the warmth of his skin. But a dirty bathroom in some Brooklyn dive bar probably isn't the most ideal place to be doing this, not for very long, at least, where if someone walks in it'll go from intimate to Awkward Town immediately, so after a few moments he nudges Lucas with his head. Makes a small, questioning noise.

"Mm," he replies and presses a messy, incoherent kiss into Brody's hair before he pulls back out of him slowly. There's another sharp exhalation once that's done and he pulls his pants up but doesn't buckle them yet, falling sideways against the wall beside Brody with a weak thud. He is smiling while trying not to, and it looks very satisfied.

Bending over, he hauls his jeans back up -- it hurts and every time he moves his hips, he winces. He doesn't have a belt and his hands are too stiff to work the buttons, so he gives up on them, just keeping his hips still to keep his pants from just falling down. He leans forward with his torso to nip affectionately at his shoulder, one fang catching on Lucas' skin. The soreness is already catching up to him. "...ow."

"Come here."

Still smiling, he reaches down to fasten Brody's pants for him. "It hurts badly?"

"Not too bad." Brody leans against him, his head on his chest, listening for his heart to start to slow down. "Next time we'll come prepared." He used to, when he was alive -- he'd keep stuff on him all the time. That was a while ago.

"It will become often, in places like this." He seems to find this amusing and reaches up to pet Brody's hair.

"Hmmm. Was that a joke?" He rubs his head against his hand and makes a low noise like a purr. There are long pauses between when he speaks where he doesn't breathe at all, then an inhalation whenever he starts like punctuation. "Had a good time?"

"Yes," he says to both and uses his hand in Brody's hair to lift his chin and kiss him. He is aching and spent for many good reasons, of course it was a good time.

"You?"

"Good, I'm a corrupting influence." His mouth tastes like blood and little else, the usual. His face is dirty -- a bit of blood smeared across his lip, some dirt on his face from where it was pressed into the wall. The little cuts on his neck and hips have already closed. "Mm."

"This is not an answer." He points this out as his fingers gingerly touch a dirt stain on his cheek to see if there is a cut or bruise underneath.

Nothing on his face. The bruises on his neck are turning dark; in an hour or two they'll go light again and disappear. "Yes. I liked it."

Edited 2011-09-14 08:16 (UTC)

"Mm." That is evidently the right answer, because his smile appears again.

"I wish there was more with which I could repay you."

"You don't have to repay me for anything." The door opens and someone walks in -- maybe the same person who tried before, maybe not -- but all they see is two people, dressed, standing very close and talking. Nothing bad at all. Still, he kind of doesn't want to stand around and listen to some guy piss. "You wanna stay here a while or get outta here?"

"It is time to leave."

Lucas takes Brody's hand and walks decisively toward the door. It is only after he's reached it that he realizes he has assumed Brody will be accompanying him back to his bedroom. However, he is fairly sure that he'll be corrected if there are other plans.

It is when they have reached the street outside again that Lucas catches the eye of a twenty something man walking in the opposite direction and he stops abruptly in his tracks.

Probably he should go home and sleep, but he doesn't feel like it. It's not like needs like that are all that urgent, anyway, when you're dead, you have all the time in the world. Lying down would at least be nice. Cuddling. Maybe watching another movie.

He's walking slow because it's uncomfortable -- painful, a bit, but mostly uncomfortable -- and he has his head resting on Lucas' shoulder, not caring if anyone sees them and decides they're faggots and that they're gonna pick a fight over it.

He doesn't notice he's stopped immediately, takes a few steps before he feels the resistance and pauses, turning around to look at him. "Coming?"