This is the night that never ends...

[godofcologne]

A few minutes of quiet and the scent of gunpowder managed to do what all the interminable talking had not: clear Thomas' mind to the point where he could actually stand being in his own head. Still, just because he wasn't in danger of hurling insults or spewing his guts didn't mean he wanted to see any of the housemates who had been informed of his

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[bad_vlad]

Vlad had seen Alice safely on the ground and into the house, but the sun wasn't quite up yet and he didn't intend on sleeping, anyway. Wandering the lower floor, out of his ridiculous greaser costume and into more of his usual style.

Barefoot, his hair wet from rinsing out the gel, Vlad padded downstairs, looking for someone interesting. Drifting through the living room, his eyes drifted to the sliding door and the pool outside. There was still a bottle of Jack Daniels out there with his name on it.

Pulling open the glass door, Vlad strolled outside, and found something much more interesting that alcohol. A grin spread slowly over his face as he drifted closer. "This is where I make a pun about handling your weapon, isn't it?"

This was good. He could smile, and joke. The tension had faded to one razor-thin line, running through the back of his mind. It was easy enough to ignore. Or pretend to ignore.

[godofcologne]

The bottle of bourbon had been halfway to his mouth when the sliding door opened, and upon noticing it was Vlad, Thomas continued taking a sizeable swig before he answered. "Only if you want to be boring," Thomas answered with a smirk.

The other man was tense, he could feel it, but Thomas was thoroughly a fan of Not Talking About It and expected Vlad would be the same. Unlike women. And manchildren that sparkled. "So I think you'll just have to come up with something better."

He pours solvent through the barrel again, and it runs back out clear. Satisfied, Thomas began putting the gun back together. He nodded at the collection of mostly full liquor bottles around him. "Want to help?"

[bad_vlad]

"With the drinking? Oh yes. I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about guns."

Vlad settled into the chair nearby. The bottle he'd been looking for was gone anyhow; someone on the crew must have taken it. Reaching for whiskey now, Vlad twisted off the cap and took a long drink.

Watching Thomas' slim fingers put the firearm back together, Vlad pondered their dilemma. He didn't want to talk about it. Thomas didn't want to talk about it. But he needed to know something of what had gone on. Whether he and Lacci had patched things up, or she'd thrown half a room at him.

Picking up the bottle for another drink, Vlad settled on a very mild, "Settling in all right?"

[godofcologne]

Now that the hollow ache left by Justine's presence was fading back into a more tolerable pain, the burned lips were just irritating. Thomas took another swallow from the bourbon bottle, tipping it carefully into his mouth without splashing any on his lips.

The Desert Eagle was put back together and settled at the small of his back again before he addressed Vlad's question. "I'm still standing. Metaphorically," he answered.

[godofcologne]

The speed and efficiency with which Vlad hauled him inside would have made Thomas laugh if he had been able to catch his breath before the man pressed him against the glass door, hand threading through his hair and lips trailing kisses down his throat. Thomas growled in frustration, rocking to the delicious rhythm Vlad set that just wasn't enough, and his hands reached for Vlad's hips, pulling pants and boxers down in one frenzied motion.

"Counter. Now." Thomas growled through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the other man's hips as he took the three steps towards the closest kitchen counter. It took only a matter of seconds to get the other man onto said counter. And once he had him there, Thomas' desperate movements slowed again, an infuriating smirk on his lips as his fingers drifting over hips and heated flesh, one hand stroking surely while the other undid the buttons to Vlad's shirt.

[bad_vlad]

Oh that was entirely unfair.

Vlad's pants were in a heap on the kitchen floor, and Thomas was making him squirm, gasping, while he finished undressing him entirely. For the moment, Vlad was unable to do anything but brace himself against the back of the counter and arch up shamelessly into the heated touch, a low moan escaping his mouth for every stroke.

When the shirt was unbuttoned, Vlad shrugged it off his shoulders and down around his wrists, opening his eyes to look up at the unfairly-clothed man with his irritating smirk who was tormenting him with strokes moving far too slowly. He tried to articulate, say something, even if it was to beg for more - but all he managed was a strangled version of Thomas' name.

[godofcologne]

If he had been in a more demanding, hungrier sort of mood, there would have been growled commands and enough fleeting touches to drive a saint mad. As it is, Thomas merely chuckled, warm and low in his throat, as he shrugged out of his own shirt. There was too much heat and frenzied want in the air for him to think clearly, and Thomas pulled the other man to him, crushing Vlad's lips in a demanding kiss. Still raw nerves and too-sensitive skin sent jolts of pain and pleasure through him, driving his own desires higher while the Hunger danced, light velvet feet on humming strings of need

[bad_vlad]

Vlad didn't often sleep with men. Not that he had a problem with it- the opportunity just seemed to come up less. Still less often did he bottom.

And he'd never found anyone who could make him squirm like Thomas did.

Anyone else, he would have been trying to press close, pull open that shirt, taste his skin and maybe bite into him - but the want was too strong, too much of a frenzy, for Vlad to do much but twist and moan, like a boy at his first time.

Fingernails scratched down the kitchen cupboards. Hips pressed upward - Vlad was already crying out, trying to urge Thomas' teasing faster, harder. Throwing back his head, denting the wooden cupboard doors, Vlad groaned slowly, pressing his hips up into Thomas' hand. "Please." It was a tortured word, laced with want. It was also more moan than actual speech.