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They did this. Thursday nights, Travie strode into territory that wasn’t his and held his head high, knowing that no one would touch him. Not on these nights. He owned his territory and held it strong, his people taking block by block at an almost lazy place. He’d own the entire L.A. underbelly one day, and he didn’t care how long it took, but this place wasn’t his.The old hotel towered over him, long since claimed by Beckett and his boys. Beckett liked opulence and old money, and the old grand hotel was the place he stayed at the most, had been staying for as long as Travie had known him.(He always thought of him as Beckett. Sure, he called him plenty of things. William, Bill, Bilvy, etc, etc. But Travie forced himself to only think of him as Beckett, because everything else was too hard, too close. It made him think of better lives.)Travie mussed up his hair and pulled the zipper of his leather jacket down an inch or so, going around to the back entrance. The ex-teenager standing guard glared at him. He was a new boy, probably didn’t know quite yet how to keep his distaste down when Travie came by, but knew better than to say or do anything about it. He’d be staked if he did.“McCoy,” he greeted, the cold word losing its edge with his baby face. Travie didn’t remember which one this was. Once upon a time, he would’ve learned everyones name, would’ve treated them with the respect he was so often denied. Back when he danced on rooftops and screamed words of love and liberation with smoke in his lungs. Back when his heart beat. He only nodded at the ex-teenager, who begrudgingly let him in.(Sometimes, Travie thought about it. About before. He saw his mama cry at his funeral, and it had hurt some part of him, some lingering humanity. The remains in the coffin weren’t his, and his mama would never know. He thought about Fuck-Knows, New York, and thought about his mama’s full grave next to his empty one.He thought about when he fled to the city with his notebook and the clothes on his back and fell in with the beatniks. Folk songs that no one recorded were sung in falling-apart-ments, names that no one stuck to were traded with cigarettes and grass. He used to read Ginsberg and Baldwin, used to chant Kerouac, used to breathe Burroughs. New York City felt like his, but not how L.A. was his now. It was his heart. When he wrote, he wrote to the rhythm of the city, matched his words to the honking of horns and the screeching of engines.)Someone was making some sort of pained noise. Someone was always making some sort of pained noise in this hotel, whether it’s an unwitting victim or a willing bedfellow, someone’s soundwaves were tinged with hurt. Travie ignored it and glided through the dark, smoky speakeasy like it was his place already. He ignored the bar, ignored the people, ignored the decadence. His decadence didn’t engage with these distractions, not on these nights.He turned a corner, the rabble of a cabaret quieting down as he got further down the once-magnificent hall. The ironwork steps groaned under his feet the moment he started climbing them. Travie knew the groaning would echo up, knew that Beckett’s door was cracked, knew that Beckett knew he was here.Travie took his time. It was part of the game, playing slow and uninterested. They drew it out, mostly because they could.(Even rarer did he wonder about Beckett. There had to have been a before for him too. Travie wasn’t always like this, and he knew Beckett couldn’t have been either. He caught glimpses of it — short etudes on an old piano, books and books of sheet music, an unfinished magnum opus as doomed as they were. A faded, cracking photograph of a man hidden in a jewelry box.Travie never asked. He didn’t want to. And he knew Beckett didn’t want to answer.)He didn’t knock. He just entered the room. Beckett was sprawled out on a lounge, relaxing against jewel-toned cushions and a bloodstained wooden frame. The wave of his hair laid over the arm of the lounge, one long leg (clad in silk stockings) draping off the other arm and his other foot planted on the plush carpet spread over the marble floor. His grey ensemble and fur stole was traded for a light lilac wrapper, open just enough that Travie could see a sliver of his white chemise and ivory corset. Save for the stockings, he never wore anything underneath. He was a goddamn belladonna.“Mr. McCoy, darling!” Beckett exclaimed, propping himself up on a hand and smiling at Travie — so happily you’d think it was genuine. “How lovely to see you, it is.”Travie closed the door behind him, turning the lock with a click and sweeping his gaze across the room. There was never a hidden attack waiting, but it never hurt to be vigilant, he reasoned. “William,” he finally responded, keeping his voice polite and even, “I see I’m not interrupting anything.”Beckett laughed, a short, single bark as he shifted, exposing a bit more of his get up. Travie held himself cool and steady, but if he still had a working heart it would’ve skipped a beat. The chemise he was wearing was Travie’s favorite of his, with a lacy hem and neckline with a small fabric rose in the center. The white fabric was dotted with blood. It made him look gorgeous, mysterious. He was a scandal waiting to happen. “Not a thing, not a thing!” he said in response, getting to his feet with a sly smile. “Make yourself at home, I do hope you’ll pardon me for my inappropriateness of dress.”Travie didn’t take the chance to comment, instead seating himself on the lounge where Beckett had been. From here, he could watch as Beckett moved about the room, always careful and calculated in his motions, no matter how slight they were. The smallest turn of a wrist could shift the air. For as entitled as Beckett was, he was dangerous — they both were.“May I offer you a drink, Mr. McCoy?” he asked, voice sweetened with honey. Mortals always sank into it. Beckett didn’t wait for his answer before pulling the ornate bottle from the icebox. The smell of blood hit him immediately, coppery and thick like a chain on the senses, better than any perfume.“Mhm, I’ll take it.”Travie didn’t even need to watch. He could hear it, sense it as Beckett poured them both a glass. He closed his eyes and listened to the icebox close again, listened to his footsteps get closer and closer, and then stop. He cracked open one eye. Beckett stood in front of him, holding a glass in each hand. He held one out, and Travie took it. Nearly twitching, he took a drink, exhaling in delight. Beckett set his glass down on the end table, waiting for Travie to speak. He took another drink, eyeing him. Then, finally: “Down.”Beckett was kneeling in a flash, sat on his heels, back straight and head up, smiling wide. Travie glanced at him once, feigning disinterest, and took another drink. For a few minutes, all he did was savor his drink and study the room, paying little mind to the rough diamond at his feet. He knew, from experience, that Beckett could kneel there for hours, perfectly still and silent, just another pretty trinket in the room. It was almost puzzling, but Travie certainly wouldn’t complain. Not when he was the one Beckett was kneeling for.With a last long drink, he finished his glass, setting it on the end table next to the other one. “Closer. Don’t make me bend.” Beckett edged closer, until his bony arm brushed Travie’s bony leg. Travie shifted, taking a handful of Beckett's hair in one hand and his neglected glass in the other. “Open.” Pale lips parted, and Travie pressed the glass to them. He pulled gently on his hair, tipping the glass forward as he did, and watched the blood spill into his mouth.(Once, Travie was particularly worked up, and he’d had Beckett suck him off in between drinks. Watching blood and spit drip from Beckett’s mouth around his dick had been the closest Travie thought he’d ever get to heaven.)He tipped the glass back level again, and Beckett left his mouth open, the blood pooling. “Swallow,” Travie ordered, and he closed his mouth and did. They repeated the process five, six times, silent except for Travie’s directions and the swallows of Beckett. The blood he drank was flowing, streaming down and warming his stomach. He was half-hard by the time he poured the last bit of blood from the glass into Beckett’s mouth.Struck with an idea, Travie leaned forward a bit, making sure to keep Beckett still and open. He gathered up the saliva forming in his throat and spit into the blood in his mouth. A brief millisecond of shock passed through his eyes, but when Travie said “Swallow”, he did. Pleased, Travie put the empty glass on the nightstand. He wiped a stray drop of blood from Beckett’s lip, licking it up from his thumb before he could go for it. Travie released his hair, the brown waves tumbling down the back of his neck.Beckett stayed down, fingers twitching on his thighs. His eyes, dark and dangerous, flicked from Travie’s face to his hands, then back down to the ground. He shifted his weight from knee to knee, clearly antsy tonight. Travie almost wanted to keep him down there, keep disregarding him. Just to see how antsy he really was. While a dominating Beckett was the norm in the streets, it was a rare treat here.(Beckett had only fucked him a few times, harsh and composed. He’d taken Travie on his back, impossibly soft hands pressed to the back of his knees. It had taken a few moments before Travie’s vampiric healing rid him of the tingling soreness in his thighs. He’d almost wished that the pain had lasted longer.)“Up.”He was up in a flash, perching himself on Travie’s lap, knees bracketing his thighs and head dipped down with a light, fluttering giggle. A lily-of-the-valley laughing in his lap. This was the closest either of them got to happiness.“Darling Mr. McCoy,” Beckett breathed, leaning in and pressing kisses to the dip of Travie’s neck. Travie’s hands went to his hips, fingertips skimming the bottom edge of his corset. He inched upwards, trailing over the steel boning through the faded cotton. “Mr. McCoy, I do feel as if the weeks just keep getting longer…”It was sweet talk. Travie knew it. Beckett was buttering him up, as if it was necessary — it was just the character he liked to play, the shameless and flirtatious socialite. Travie played along. He always played along.Travie flattened a hand against Beckett’s corseted waist, tilting his head to the side. “You miss me, Bill-baby?” Beckett hummed against his neck, and Travie lowered his other hand, sliding it up under the chemise and above the ribbon-tied stockings, ghosting over his thighs. He was getting hard — not to where Travie was yet, but getting there, his thighs heating up under his touch. Beckett nodded.His fingertips drifted up further, skimming the skin where the inside of his thigh met his pelvis. Part of him wanted to do it slow, work Beckett to the edge and pull him back down again, repeat it over and over until his fluttery voice broke into nothing but breathy whines. But part of him just wanted Beckett, cheek pressed to a pillow and letting Travie take him on the carefully made bed he knew was only used for this.(He’d only dated women when he was human. It was only ever girls in dark sweaters and tight pants, smoking at dinner. Girls that edited his poems in charcoal and screamed with him in the middle of the night. Hip, hot, halcyon. Jazzy and jeweled.)“God, you’re pretty,” Travie mumbled, words coming from somewhere deep in his throat where Beckett sucked, as if any mark wouldn’t vanish mere minutes later. He wished they stayed a bit longer, even if just because he thought they both looked good marked up. “You wear your pretty things just for me?”“Just for you, Mr. McCoy,” Beckett echoed, nodding slightly. It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a lie. Beckett slept around. Everyone slept around these days. But Beckett didn’t dress up and kneel for just anyone.Travie moved his hands, cupping Becketts ass under his chemise. He squeezed, and Beckett laughed, kissing up Travie’s neck. “I know what I wanna do,” Travie began, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle against the soft skin, “you wanna hear it, baby?”Beckett nodded, licking across the line of Travie’s jaw. An slight shiver went up his spine.“I think I’m gonna have a cigarette, and while I do that, I want you to get yourself open — then I think I’m gonna get you in my lap.” Travie gave another squeeze, and let go, snaking out a hand and tucking a lock of hair behind Beckett’s ear. “You dig it?”He felt Beckett’s lips curl into a grin against his jaw. “I believe I do.”“How much of this can I fuck you in?” he asked, taking the edge of the lilac wrapper between his thumb and index finger. “You look real gorgeous, I don’t wanna waste it.”Beckett laughed and got to his feet, kissing Travie swiftly as he stood. Making sure Travie was watching, he shrugged out of the wrapper, revealing the pale expanses of his narrow shoulders, then his arms. He turned, all sharp shoulder blades just begging for Travie’s tattooed hand pressed flat between them. A few strides across the room, and the wrapper was hung up. Beckett turned on his heel again, smiling across at Travie. “Where will you have me, Mr. McCoy?”(The first time they did this, God knows how long ago, Beckett told Travie exactly what to do, how to pleasure him right. It shifted from there, dynamics and experiments waxing and waning like the tides. Now, Travie knew him better than he knew himself. He knew where to touch and drag his lips, knew what to say, knew what Beckett liked most. Travie knew about the spot on the inside of Beckett’s thigh that made him melt, knew that his sides were particularly sensitive, knew that he could handle Travie working him after an orgasm. So Beckett was a bit of a selfish lover — Travie could be too, he just got what he wanted watching Beckett fall apart.)“Right by me, Bill-baby. I wanna watch nice and close.”Beckett’s grin only grew wider. Shifting over to lean against the arm of the lounge, Travie unzipped his leather jacket, sliding out a cigarette and a lighter. He followed Beckett’s movement, watching as he moved to the nightstand by the bed and opened a drawer, plucking out the bottle of lube that lived there permanently. Beckett situated himself on the lounge, pulling a decorative pillow under his hips to prop himself up. He leaned back, resting one foot on the lounge and resting his knee against the back, other leg resting over Travie’s lap. Lighting his cigarette, Travie watched as Beckett rested his head against the other arm of the lounge and hiked up the hem of his chemise as far as it could go.“Bit wider,” Travie mumbled. Beckett obliged, shifting his leg closer to Travie’s knees. He was hard now, cock flushed, the head nearly rosy. But Travie was more interested in the pretty pink hole an inch or so lower, bared for the taking. Travie could easily reach out and stroke one long, brown finger down his perineum and to his hole. Instead, he slid his lighter back in his jacket, and took a drag of his cigarette. Beckett flipped open the cap of the bottle, squeezing a moderate amount onto his index and middle finger, setting the bottle on the ground.With a slight hum, Beckett shifted, trailing his dry hand over his thigh and setting it down, pressing himself open. Travie took another drag and watched intently as Beckett slowly pressed in one nimble finger with a small, pleased sigh. His grin slipped into a small smile. The tip of his finger disappeared, then the first knuckle, then the second.(“I don’t do this with others,” Beckett admitted once, after Travie had worn him out. “I fuck other people — I don’t let other people fuck me.”There was no way of him knowing how true that was. But Travie chose to believe it.)He took another drag, holding it for a second before exhaling. Beckett’s eyes fluttered as he pressed up to the base of his index finger, an almost silent noise leaving him. For a moment, Travie wished he’d rolled a joint or two instead — it took much more to get high than when he was human, but it was worth it for the heightened sensations, the tingling all over his body. Watching Beckett had to be intoxicating enough for now, though.He hardly noticed when Beckett started moving the finger, slow and purposeful. In and out sluggishly slow, teasing himself and the watching Travie. The slight smile on his face was only broken by the parting of his lips as he (presumably) crooked the finger. This single-finger teasing wasn’t really necessary. They both knew damn well that Beckett could, often did, start with two, his long fingers pushing past the resistance easily.Travie exhaled his next drag in Beckett’s direction, resting a hand on his calf to get his attention. “I said get yourself open, Bilvy. Don’t be difficult.”Beckett cracked open one eye, looking at him through long lashes. The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he shifted just a bit, pressing the finger in a bit deeper and exhaling a bit harder. “And what if I am difficult, Mr. McCoy?”It was either a test or an invitation, but it didn’t really matter which. That was just how it went. Beckett prodded because it was fun for him, and whatever reaction (or lack thereof) he got was fun for him too. For now, Travie just delivered a small slap to the inside of his thigh, watching the near imperceptible jerk he got in response. Beckett closed his eyes fully again, and even then Travie knew he was rolling them when he said “Get to it, Beckett.”As much as he loved being a bitch, Beckett loved pleasure more. He pulled out his index finger, curling it with his middle and pressing them in to the first knuckle. “That’s nice,” Beckett sighed, tilting his head to the side a bit. “You ought to do this yourself more, Mr. McCoy.”Travie shook his head, a small chuckle escaping his throat. “Really? You’re a damn glutton, you know that? Nothing is good enough.”Beckett laughed in response, a slight and breathy noise as he pressed his fingers in deeper. There was the telltale huff that betrayed that he was slowly starting to open his fingers. “I’m an insatiable woman, Mr. McCoy, you —” his breath caught. Travie laughed as he brought his cigarette to his lips. “You should know that by now.”He’d never get tired of this, Travie decided, gaze focusing on Beckett’s fingers where they disappeared inside him.(Truly, if Travie was opening Beckett up, he much preferred to use his mouth. Flattening his tongue against the pucker and taking long, slow licks until he decided to push his tongue in. Then, he ate it like he was starving, one large hand spread wide on each of Beckett’s asscheeks, holding him where Travie could just dive right in. He always felt a bit crazed when he pulled back, Beckett’s pink hole slick with shiny spit and practically begging for Travie to go back in. Travie thought he could probably spend hours licking Beckett open, if he would let him.)“I told you how this was gonna go,” Travie spoke, deliberate as he slowed his words, landing a small, matching slap on Beckett’s other thigh. “I’m fucking your greedy cunt no matter what. I’d suggest you get a move on with opening up.”The cigarette was burning down. Beckett could take it — had taken it, probably would take it again — with less prep than this, but Travie liked the extra bit of slide it offered. After a moment, Beckett pulled his curled fingers out, fumbling for the bottle of lube and pouring a bit on his ring finger. Travie took the bottle, resting it by his hip. Pressing his three fingers together, Beckett slid in, wiggling his hips a bit to find an easy angle. A noise close to a moan left him, and Travie could feel his leg tense.One-handed, Travie unclasped his belt buckle, sliding it open. Beckett’s breath hitched at the noise, and it took everything in Travie not to laugh at his reaction. “Not tonight, Bill-baby,” he teased, undoing the button of his jeans and pulling down the zipper, pausing to take another long drag from his cigarette. Almost finished. He shoved his undone jeans and boxers down his thighs, letting his hard cock out with a relieved exhale. He gave himself a couple strokes, before turning his attention back to Beckett.He was threefold, pressed up to the base with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Head tilted back, he was the picture of pleasure. Travie wished he showed up on camera.“Give me your other arm.”Beckett faltered.“Don’t stop, just give me your other arm.”Resuming his steady movements, Beckett reached out his other arm, eyes still shut tight. Travie’s fingers closed around his forearm, and he took a last drag of his cigarette, waiting for him to thrust his fingers in before stubbing the cigarette out on the pale skin of his arm. Honest-to-God, Beckett squealed, a high pitched sound as he jerked, pressing down on his fingers, cock twitching, eyes flying open. He held it there for a few more seconds, gaze fixed on Beckett’s squirming figure. He pulled it away, but kept his grip on his arm. If he really wanted to, Beckett could dislodge him. But he didn’t.Instead, he hissed through his teeth, shifting uncomfortably in his grip. As if he wasn’t rock hard and three fingers deep in himself. Travie just watched, watched the contrasting red mark on Beckett’s skin, watched as it yellowed and scabbed over, watched as it turned a pale pink and finally faded. He let go with a grin and flicked the cigarette butt somewhere on the floor.“What was that for?” Beckett asked, bottom lip jutted into a soft pout as he eased his fingers out and propped himself up.Travie shrugged. He grabbed the lube at his hip, squirting it out into his hand and slicking up his cock, recapping the bottle and setting it on the end table. “Couldn’t resist. C’mere, in my lap, lean against me.”Huffing, Beckett readjusted, wiping his hand on the arm of the lounge before shifting into Travie’s lap. Travie hooked a hand under one of his thighs, other hand holding the base of his own cock steady. Beckett hovered, holding his chemise up with one hand and holding one of his cheeks to the side. Travie squeezed his thigh, and slowly, slowly, Beckett sank down.Inch by inch, Beckett lowered himself, velvet warmth slowly enveloping Travie’s cock. Neither of them said a word, Beckett breathing a bit heavy and Travie forcing himself to stay steady. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, Beckett lowered himself down to the base of Travie’s cock, letting go of himself and his chemise. Travie moved his hand from his base to Beckett’s hip, allowing them both a moment to adjust into it. They didn’t really need it, but it was nice to have. Travie fully sheathed inside him, Beckett leaned back, resting against his chest. He turned his head, kissing at Travie’s neck as they settled.Travie gave the slightest thrust of his hips up, and Beckett groaned against his neck, the sound thrumming through them both. This was what he’d wanted, Beckett in his lap, on his cock, pretty and sinking.(One of his favorite things to do — draw it out until Beckett was actually pliant, not just pretending. When he was under the waves of desire so deep that he didn’t bitch, didn’t tease, just let it wash over him. Let Travie fuck him how he really loved to, slow and intense and burningly intimate.He’d caught a couple, once, while prowling at the boardwalk. They looked almost like him and Beckett. All long limbs and love. The one who looked almost like him had an arm around the one who looked almost like Beckett, laughing and sharing a big thing of cotton candy. Travie had stalked them to the carousel, to the Ferris Wheel where they kissed at the top, to some stupid game where the one that looked almost like Beckett won a teddy bear for the one that looked almost like him, until they disappeared into an alley to make out. He tore both their throats out.The next time he went to Beckett’s, he fucked him until dawn started to stretch her dangerous fingers.)Beckett lifted up, no more than an inch, and sunk back down, breathing fluttering with his eyelashes. He did it again, faster this time, and Travie moaned, low in his throat, grip tightening on Beckett’s thigh. He started to move in time — short, shallow thrusts up with his lifts and drops. Like clockwork. Like normalcy. Travie’s hand rose from Beckett’s hip to his corseted waist, squeezing through the material. Their breathing mingled together in the scented air, Beckett’s head tipping back and his hair falling over Travie’s shoulder.Being inside him still made Travie feel like he was in heaven. It was warm and soft and almost comforting, in some odd way. Like he was meant to be nestled right there. Red-hot, holy, and wonderful. The slide of lube made his thrusts easy, but it still felt like Beckett was trying to pull him further, trying to keep him buried inside. Like he needed it the same way Travie did.“Oh, baby,” Travie mumbled, pushing his hips up at the moment Beckett pushed his down, finally brushing against that electric spot inside him and eliciting a high and heavy noise. “You always feel so good.”Hips jumping to try and hit that spot again, Beckett made a breathy sound that was something like “yeah?”, so Travie kept talking. He always kept talking. Even if the words felt corny or stupid in his mouth, they spilled out of him like a stream flowing to the ocean. They always had.“Always do, love being inside you,” he continued, pressing a wet kiss to his cheek and thrusting up, hard. Beckett gave a whiny noise, resting his hand overtop Travie’s on his waist. “Love how you feel, how you take it — like you’re made for it.”He pressed down on Beckett’s thigh, hips jerking forcefully. Focused, he turned his hand, searching the smooth skin. Beckett laughed softly, his fingers slotting in between Travie’s on his waist. “Don’t know if — might not have been enough for you to find it.”Shushing him, Travie moved his hand up Beckett’s thigh, senses attuned to barely more than that and his cock buried in Beckett’s ass. His fingertips skimmed the skin stretched between his thigh and pelvis, his ignored cock twitching, dripping down flushed skin and barely-there veins.He found the pulse point and jolted like he’d been shocked, Beckett nearly yelping at the sudden, sharp movement inside him. Travie kissed his jaw and pressed his fingers down, hard. If he focused, really focused, it was there — the faintest hint of an artificial pulse, the blood he’d been fed desperately trying to reanimate the dead circulatory system. He writhed, squirmed, and Travie pressed down harder. He shifted forward and Beckett leaned back, cheek-to-cheek with Travie. “God — god, it’s good,” he said, words slurred and lips slick, “so good, Travie.”He let him get away with it, not wanting to split his focus or devote attention to correcting him. Not when he had what he wanted, when he could pretend they were something more than this. “Bilvy, gorgeous —” he was breathing heavy now, short thrusts pumping up into Beckett, each time punctuated with his small, airy sounds of pleasure that betrayed that Travie had found the right angle. “Do you know — how difficult it is to not just push you to the floor — fuck you like a kept girl?”Beckett nodded, and Travie didn’t know if it was a response or if he was even listening.(He knew, nebulously, what Beckett was feeling — he’d been fucked his fair share of times, of course, but barely ever like this. But he had described it once, when Travie wrapped a hand around his throat and told him to talk it through. It felt full, he’d said, felt deep and right and divine. Like he was only right like this, only made for this. Like nothing mattered except this, except Travie fucking him deep, melting them together like sweet scented wax from a candle.The first time Travie had pressed on a pulse point while fucking him, Beckett didn’t even say anything, just devolved immediately into broken noises and shudders.)“Do it,” Beckett gasped out, raising his free hand to thread through Travie’s hair, “do it, you know I won’t — I won’t stop you.” As if making his point, Beckett clenched down around him, and Travie grit his teeth. He was dragging his hips in short spirals, trying to goad Travie on, trying to win. As if he hadn’t been winning from the start.He relented. He always relented. “Tell you what,” Travie said, voice low, wavering slightly in Beckett’s ear, “you cum like this, princess, and I’ll fuck you however you want.”“God,” Beckett whined out, voice rising. He kissed, wet and open-mouthed, at his throat, teeth scraping across his skin. “I’m — you’re wonderful, want to…” he trailed off into something close to a whimper, trying unsuccessfully to nuzzle his face into Travie’s neck.If the world ended now, Travie would be happy. Beckett, tight and wet around him, pliant in his hands, eyes fluttering and mouth parted in pleasure. This was his favorite part, when Beckett’s resolve cracked open, when he relented too. When he let himself go, let the waves of pleasure roll over him until he was as sweet and soft as Travie knew he could get him. It was hard to believe that this was the same Beckett that stalked the streets and had his fun turning hunters into vampires. But it was — it was the same dangerous, cold, Beckett here in his lap, right now. He pushed Beckett down impossibly further, biting out a moan as his hand clutched his hair, skilled fingers carding through dark corkscrew coils.(When Beckett held onto him like this, Travie felt like this was right. Like maybe, maybe, Beckett thought about another life, another world.)“That’s right, beautiful,” Travie mumbled, kissing the bridge of Beckett’s nose, “I know you can cum like this. I know you can.”Beckett was breaking, Travie could tell. His thighs were trembling, breath fast and shuddering. Pale fingers curled over Travie’s hand, gripping onto him like a lifeline. He was sinking fast, melting against Travie’s chest. “Touch me,” Beckett breathed, lifting and dropping his hips shakily, “come on, it, I —”Travie shook his head, kissing Beckett’s jaw. “You don’t need it, you don’t.” Beckett keened, pitchy and desperate. “Come on, you know you don’t.” He hoped he was right — it could be hit or miss whether or not Beckett could. He was unpredictable, even now. But, god, he loved watching it, and he was slowly starting to crumble too.“Come on, doll,” he whispered, pressing hard on the pulse point, “my pretty thing, I know you can, I know you can.”Beckett kicked out his free leg, eyes pressed closed tightly. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, pearly fangs digging into it before it slipped free. Hips stuttering, he let out a high quivering moan. And to Travie’s delight, when he whispered “do it” in a soft growl, Beckett came, his thighs tensing and his cock twitching. He clenched around Travie, and Travie bit at the crook of his neck, knowing he wouldn’t be lasting too terribly long either. Travie let go of his pulse point and wiped the salty cum off from where it landed on Beckett’s corset, before wrapping his hand around his cock.The reaction was immediate, Beckett jolting and squirming even more than he was before, panting and whining and shaking his head. Travie hummed, thrusting up further into Beckett while he worked him, trapping him in sensation. He wouldn’t be able to get Beckett to cum again before he did, but he could still have his fun.“Said you’d — said you’d fuck me like, like how I want —” Beckett gasped, grip on his hair loosening as he trembled. And Travie was a man of his word, so after a few more pumps of his hand, he released his cock and let go of his waist. Beckett didn’t move, so Travie nudged up with his knee.“Up, come on. Floor, knees and elbows, come on.” he urged, a quiver to his own voice. Beckett groaned softly. “Don’t bitch, do it baby.”Regrettably necessarily, Beckett pulled off of him, sighing heavily as he did so, holding his chemise up. Legs shaking, he got to the floor, holding himself up on spread knees, elbows resting on the floor and forearms folding underneath him. Travie followed, taking a steadying breath, flipping up the chemise and smoothing his hands over Beckett’s ass. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to one of his cheeks, before straightening up. He pressed his thumb against his flushed hole, lubed and puffy. “Damn gorgeous,” he mumbled.“Hurry up,” Beckett groaned, stilted, “come on. We — we both know you wanna, wanna fuck me right, come on.”“Fuck you right?” Travie echoed, pulling his thumb away, “What, you didn’t like what I was doin’?”Beckett grumbled, wiggling his hips and pushing back. He was resting his face on his folded forearms, eyes half-closed and foggy, lips parted. “Just do it, fuck, ‘m not — know you wanna cum inside me.”He wasn’t wrong. Travie held him open, and slowly guided himself to Beckett’s hole. He pressed in, pushing the leaking tip and head inside, pausing for a second. As Beckett started to say something — to complain, presumably — Travie pushed in to the base, heavy and deep. Travie exhaled a low moan, hands moving to grip Beckett’s hips.Travie gave himself a moment to gaze down at where he was sheathed, dark wiry curls at his base pressed against the minute curve of Beckett’s ass. His hands, large and tattooed, skilled now, seemed to fit perfectly over the hollows of Beckett’s jutting hips. His thighs, firm and fuzzy with more wiry curls, pressed against Beckett’s, rubbing against the ribbon-tied stockings.Digging his teeth into his bottom lip to keep himself centered, Travie started moving. At first, a slow back and forth, building. Beckett was whining, low and pretty. Thrusting rhythmically, he trailed a hand up Beckett’s back, brushing over the laces of the corset, and bending slightly to rest a hand on the back of Beckett’s head, fingers threading through his brown waves.He picked up the pace, slow and steady building into fast and hard, sweat forming on his brow. “Fuck,” Travie mumbled, shaking his head as he pushed in particularly hard, Beckett clenching around his cock. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re just —”Beckett pushed his hips back, back arched nearly impossibly and fingers clenched around nothing. Sickeningly sweet and soft, he whispered, dreamy and light that Travie could barely hear, “Please.”(“Tell me I’m yours,” Beckett ordered, on his back, soft hair spread under his head like a halo on his silk pillowcase.Travie lifted his head from where he was licking and nipping at Beckett’s ass. “I don’t need to,” he said with a shrug, lowering his head back down and flicking his tongue against Beckett’s quivering hole. “You know you’re mine, Bilvy.”He could practically feel Beckett’s pleased grin, and Beckett shifted, nearly dislodging Travie as he leaned down to stroke his face. “Yours, Travie McCoy. Yours.”)Travie’s control broke. Grip on Beckett’s hip set like steel, he pulled Beckett back on his cock in time with his thrusts. He wished he could do this forever. Wished he could be buried inside Beckett forever, wished they never had to pull apart. He wasn’t gonna last long, he knew it, so he fucked Beckett hard, bruising thrusts and skin hitting skin. He wished he could wake up with bruises on his skin from how hard he fucked his pretty boy/girl/thing.Below him, Beckett writhed and whimpered, egging Travie on and pushing back as much as Travie’s grip would allow. “Come on, come on,” he said in a hazy voice, in between slurred words that could almost be praise, “fuck me, take me.”Take me echoed in his head as he pressed in deep, aware that he must be saying something, probably something incoherent. Right now, with his cock thrusting in and out of Beckett’s warm and greedy ass, electricity pulsed through his body. All he felt was Beckett. Beckett’s temporarily warm insides, his jutting hips, his pretty lingerie, his feathery hair, his trembling gasps as Travie fucked him harder, pulling him close. Beckett was his earth right now, his Terra, and Travie was the moon, the Luna, tied around him.He grunted, breaths skipping as he pushed and pulled, hovering at the precipice of orgasm. He was rambling, words slurring and tachycardic, a stream of good girl, good, taking it so obedient, ruining you for anyone else, so stupid, desperate, greedy, perfect, spoiled pretty girl, needy bitch, so good, so good, so good —Stars flashed in his eyes when he came with a gasping, heavy groan. It was as if Beckett was pulling it from him, drawing his orgasm out to paint his insides. He pulled hard on Beckett’s hair to keep himself tethered to reality, hips stuttering and rhythm breaking into erratic thrusts. Beckett tightened around him, mumbling something that Travie couldn’t make out over the ringing in his ears and the slap of skin on skin. He kept his iron grip on Beckett’s hip, holding him flush against him until he felt thoroughly drained.(Travie wanted, he wanted so badly. He wanted everything Beckett would give him, and then some. He wanted Beckett by his side for eternity, not once a week for eternity. It wasn’t fair, but, then again, nothing was fair.)Sweat rolling down his neck, Travie pulled out, slow and deliberate. He let go of Beckett’s hair and his hip, resting his hands on his ass lightly. He watched for a moment in silence as a stray rope of cum dripped out of him, slow and sluggish.After a few moments, when he felt centered enough, Travie stood up, pulling his boxers and jeans back up, buttoning his fly. Beckett, however, turned over onto his back with a drawn out sigh, shaking his sweat-damp hair from his face. Travie shook his head, retrieving a folded towel from the nightstand across the room and crouching by his side, sliding it underneath him.“Kiss,” Beckett requested/ordered, pulling him in by his disheveled leather jacket. Travie went easily, pressing their lips together. Beckett usually didn’t want to kiss, so Travie savored it now, a slight smile on his lips. He tasted like sweat and blood and pomegranates, something so very Beckett.“You planning on getting up?” Travie teased when he pulled away, cupping Beckett’s cheek in his hand.“In a minute,” he responded, stretching out his legs. “I’ve been thoroughly defiled — forgive me if I need a moment.”Travie laughed, and Beckett’s lips curled into a smile.He’d leave later. He always did. If he didn’t leave, things would get too real, too complicated. They’d do what they always did and pit their men against each other in the streets. Travie would expand his territory and Beckett would focus on his manpower instead. They’d snarl and sneer as they passed by each other, like nearly everyone didn’t know what they did on Thursday nights. And then the next Thursday would come, and they’d do it all over again.(“I think I would love you,” Travie murmured once, lips pressed against Beckett’s shoulder in the post-orgasm glow. Beckett tensed underneath him, hand holding Travie’s freezing. Neither of them moved.Beckett turned his head, the phantom of a tear shining in his eyes. A rare moment of genuine softness, of vulnerability. Neither of them were born this horrible, Travie was sure of it. “I think I’d have loved you too, Mr. McCoy.”)