Author's Note: This is in response to Lady Amari's challenge to write about the darker side of Louis.

Louis/Lestat. Rated NC-17. QotD.

I awaken to the soft brush of his lips across my collarbone and along my neck. Moving, forming words, and if I concentrate hard enough I can just make them out. My name, over and over, and then, "je t'aime," he whispers as his tongue traces the curve of my ear. I shiver to hear the desire in his voice, making it thick and heavy and something almost physical.

His hair is like silk on my skin, a curtain of black when he raises his head to look me in the eye. The heat of his gaze burns me, stripping away my defenses, reading my soul.

Green is supposed to be a cool color, peaceful. There is no peace to be found there now, only the churning, hypnotic flames holding me captive. Swirling, twisting, every shade of green imaginable sparking and glittering beneath a fringe of black.

They speak to me of one thing: possession. And I want nothing more than to be possessed by him.

He closes his eyes and the spell is broken and I can move again, think again.

Reaching up, I grab the back of his neck and pull him down roughly, needing to taste him, make sure it's not a dream. His lips meet mine in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading the familiar territory of my mouth, mapping every peak and valley of every tooth, the blood running freely between us.

I nudge his legs apart with my knee and he arches towards me, grinding his erection against mine in an electric burst of sensation.

Gasping, I tear my mouth from his and press my body closer, sliding against his sweat-slicked skin. I reach down and pull his left leg up, lifting his hips from the bed. This is not a night for foreplay; I am desperate to be inside him, to be joined.

Another time - maybe even later this night - I will cover his body in kisses, sink my fangs into his flesh again and again, draw it out until he begs to be taken, or to take me. But not now. Now my fangs rip raggedly through my palm and the base of my fingers, and I grasp my cock with my mangled hand, coating it with my blood.

I thrust into him and his scream echoes my soul. Incoherent. I hear my name become a snarl of desire as he pulls me down to him once again. Bleeding lips and grating fangs. That familiar taste that never ceases to amaze me.

But I pull back, needing to see his face as he writhes beneath me, to know that I am the one who gives him this pleasure. Needing to see myself moving in him, the brutal rhythm of my hips leaving bruises on his perfect flesh.

This is about so much more than love. It is about blinding, irresistible need and crippling desperation.

One hand digs into my shoulder, the other grips my knee, pressing my leg tightly to my chest. Steel claws and razor nails holding me still, tearing into my flesh. Rivulets of blood mixing with my sweat and his sweat that has dripped down on me like rain from his furrowed brow.

Over and over he fills me, and I abandon myself to the mind-numbing ecstasy, my hand moving faster on my cock until I am teetering on the edge. Shuddering, he releases deep within me and I feel myself falling with him into the blackness, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I am only vaguely aware of the hot blood spurting from my cock. All I can feel is him as he tears into the muscle of my chest, just his mouth on me as he drinks. My mind shuts off and it is by instinct alone that I am able to find his neck and latch on, sinking my fangs deep into the pulsing vein.

Nothing else exists, just this moment, just us, tangled together mentally and physically.

We float blindly through the red-tinged darkness of the swoon and for a short time that desperate need is met. That need to be whole.

Only tonight there had been something more, something driving me to possess him utterly. A need to erase from his mind all thought of everyone and everything but me. It is a selfish need, born of my own insecurity and pride, and this is not the first time it has happened.

I think back to the events of last night. That is what has brought this on. That was the trigger this time.

We had rented a few films, one of which I had avoided seeing in theatres. It was not something I ever wanted to watch, but he insisted. It bore little resemblance to his book, and even less to actual events, but it brought those nights nearly twenty years ago into painfully sharp focus.

When it was over, I went out alone to hunt. My prey was a young man, a teenager as they call them these days, easy to lure down a dark alley with nothing more than a smile and an admiring glance.

Afterwards, I wandered the streets of the city aimlessly, remembering how it had felt to be reunited after so long, only to have him snatched away. Remembering Akasha.

It was then that I saw her, flanked by two friends as she stepped out of the club. She was laughing and it seemed that even her voice was the same.

Something dark rose up in my throat to choke me and I felt a strange sensation as if I were watching myself from somewhere far away. All those emotions that had been brought to the fore by the memories, the rage and hatred and the terrible, burning jealousy, overcame me and I knew then exactly what I was going to do, and how much I would enjoy it.

They were on the other side of the street, walking away from me, but I was filled with purpose and my anger carried me there in an instant. With inhuman speed, I was past them and around the corner, stopping only when I was sure I was out of sight.

Turning around, I walked back towards them, my pace unhurried. When they saw me, I smiled as I had with the boy earlier. I remembered how to make small talk, how to charm, though I had always hated the sort of social gatherings at which those skills were required. I could have had my choice of any of them, but I had eyes for her alone.

I could hear her thoughts, the foremost being how lucky she was. She had left the club empty handed, without so much as a phone number, and now here I was, a dream come true. I asked her if she would like to have a drink and she was already picturing us in varying states of undress. I told her my car was parked a little ways down the street and we took our leave of her friends. It was almost too easy.

Half a block down, I pulled her into an alleyway, still smiling as I shoved her up against the wall. She tried to scream, but I was too quick for her, clamping my hand over her mouth before the sound could escape her lips. Her dark eyes were wide and full of tears, the smell of fear almost palpable, and I loved it.

She thought I was going to rape her, but I had no such designs on her body. The very thought repulsed me and I told her so. Stupid though she might be, she realized that left only one option.

Still smiling, I let go of her mouth and, before she had a chance to scream, dealt her a backhanded slap across the face that snapped her fragile neck like a twig. She fell to the ground in a heap, still alive, but unable to move. Her breathing was labored and she couldn't gather enough breath to make more than a pathetic mewling sound.

I hauled her up by her shirtfront, holding her away from me at arm's length. Strands of long, black hair were matted to her face with blood. Blood that didn't even tempt me.

This was about so much more than blood. It was about bitter jealousy and wild, misdirected vengeance.

I think by now my face was frozen in that smile. I could see it reflected back in her eyes, my fangs showing clearly now. She couldn't struggle, couldn't even speak, as I ran my finger down her cheek, down her neck, coming to rest over her frantically beating heart.

And then I did to her what had been done before, ripping through her chest and pulling out her heart. I held the bloody organ in my hand, but unlike Mekare, I had no desire to take it into me. Instead I let it fall to the pavement and ground it to a pulp beneath my boot.

The girl was dead, of course, and now that my anger had receded I found I could no longer see much of a resemblance. I didn't care. I wiped my hand on her clothes, but blood-soaked as they were, it did little good. Tossing her broken body into a nearby dumpster, I made my way back to the flat.

The images I see in the swoon are fragmented and tinged in green, like looking through an emerald. The feelings that accompany them are overwhelming and frightening in their intensity, but I recognize them because they mirror my own.

I laugh when people say that I'm the possessive one.

The End.