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When he wakes with a heavy, sweet throbbing between his legs, cock full, and the entire lower part of his body tingling with desire, he's almost astonished that his body is capable of doing that. Arousal swells through him through the tingle of his scull to the toenails. Louis tries to breathe in, steady. All it does is fill up his lungs with Lestat's smell.
This is not the first time he has slept with Lestat this century, but this vast want is alien, almost unfamiliar. His mind tracks its roots: the press of Lestat's hard cock under Louis' ass, Lestat's quiet breaths on Louis' nape, Lestat's hand, so hesitant when he's awake, half-curled in a heavy, pleasant weight around Louis' waist. Palm held where the soft of his belly meets the dark-green cotton of the sheets.
Louis feels young, like he's never felt in his youth. Like people in the novels of this decade: melted down by the anticipation of love, all-open, eager for the new experience, unburdened. He bites his lip, careful not to draw blood.
They didn't even kiss on the mouth in these previous ten months.
Louis worked hard to skim over the brief glances at the bitten pink of Lestat's lips, the strength of his arms, bared by this century's clothes, his scent, richer and fuller since he's started, it seems, feeding from humans again. He toed the edges of his restraint, anxious about the well; of the inevitable splash the fall would make.
Lestat always looks like he loves him.
They were in France in autumn — their first meeting after New Orleans, a sliver of familiar irritation under Lestat's rigidness, the capital's light pollution blocking out the stars. Louis put several seed packs into his palm. Lestat laughed with his unpleasant, obnoxious laugh, and all that itchy, explosive annoyance dimmed and sliped from him into the night air. "No one has ever trusted me to plant," Lestat said when they left Saint-Denis and were sitting on the balcony of airbnb in suburbia northeast of Paris. Louis couldn't imagine Lestat the vampire wanting to plant anything, "When you were a child?" Lestat hummed in agreement, eyes stuck to the horizon. Louis, uneasy, had wondered if he thought of Nicolas: he burned down resting places of many a vampire in 1949, including Lestat's first love. "No gardening, then?" "No," Lestat said. Busied himself with rolling a cigarette with coffee-tasting tobacco he'd bought at the airport. "I was fit for other endeavors." Louis noticed dirt on the side of Lestat's neck. Several smudges from where he scratched his neck while they planted flowers for their daughter and her companion. They decided to start from Saint-Denis — Louis decided. He was surprised Lestat came, still surprised, even after the nights they'd spent talking in June. "Like what?" Louis was hypnotized by this imperfection, the frantic thrum of Lestat's pulse under the stained skin almost unnoticed. "Hunting, killing." Their eyes met. Lestat eyes had the soft, feverish glimmer that reminded Louis of their last night in the past century, of the opera visit before Lestat's mood got soured by the tenor, of their first time. The pressure of Lestat's hand when he first held Louis' heart, amazed and frightened. Lestat caught him looking. "Are you hungry, Louis?" No, you, you have dirt on your neck, Louis said. He aimed for gently detached, but it tumbled out of him like dry sand. Lestat touched his neck, smudging the dirt even more. Got up from his chair. A shard of coldness dropped in Louis' stomach at the movement, at Lestat's form towering over him. "I shall shower then," Lestat announced and presented Louis with a roll. "For you." Louis listened to him opening the bathroom, closing it, turning the shower on, quiet curse in French (Louis didn't switch the water, so Lestat's was probably catching a showerhead all over the cabin); a steady stream of water. He looked at the cigarette. Lestat's technique got atrocious over the years, but it was still smokable. Louis wanted to take time to smoke and then join him in the shower. Louis wanted to know more about hunting and killing. All that he knew in past decades told him that it was a wrong kind of want.
Perhaps a bottomless well was dug in some yard, near some house; perhaps it was the center of a metropolis, a forest patch, or barren land. Maybe they both built it and could drink from it. Louis wanted to drink from it, wants. He's so thirsty and tired of making himself think he's not. Being made to.
Now, it takes everything not to move his ass towards Lestat's dick or not to nudge himself forward to fit his cock into Lestat's palm. So many wrongs. It's the last stretch of the sunset in New York. The windows in the apartment will soon lose their protective shade. It's going to make a sound. Lestat will wake and find him aroused. Louis wonders what he will say — that fresh, vulnerable, ravenously excited feeling in his stomach grows like a shot of whiskey through his body, a half-formed memory of heating up from the inside. His body exists still in the recollection, repetition of the dizzying closeness. It did often since the hotel room in New Orleans, where they talked, Louis drank Lestat's blood, and they talked again, all while their body recognized each other and slotted into the recognition inside his coffin, despite the hesitance in the face of familiarity. They touched only when they were falling asleep or slept. Lestat got stunned by every accidental touch. Happy and disbelieving that Louis is alive and willing to share a fraction of his time with him — his blood sung with it, Louis heard; tasted. This is the fifth day they've spent sleeping together, and, in the previous four, Louis had been waking up alone — with Lestat around, but not near him, not pressed against him. In the quiet of his mind, Louis thinks: got you.
In a dazed, melted pleasure, denying himself any movement, Louis recalls the sensation of them falling asleep exhausted, satisfied. Being held — he in his husband's arms, on his cock — and waking up with a hot hardness inside, squirming and wriggling to get Lestat deeper, again, more. Waking Lestat up with his want, hearing his groan, his adoring I know, I know you need it, cheri, it was negligent of me to fall asleep— Lestat loved him raw, clumsy, and needy with desire, and, these moments stretched across the years until Claudia left, were moments of peace with himself for Louis, too. Louis—
—was done being one thing, feeling a specific, clear-cut way. It was impossible to maintain that compulsion as soon as he saw heartbreak on Lestat's face all these months ago, the flayed expression of his hurt, guilt, and hatred aimed inward. Done with a lie of consistency, is-was-and-always-be. Since he's found his life, or the meat of it at least — or it was revealed to him by an abrasive, intelligent child — he's gotten fond of imprecision.
Louis hears the shades on the windows shift, buzz, and lift up. Evening greys and blue spill into the room with bright neon of the advertisements on the nearby skyscrapers. Lestat quietly, in sleepy contentment, hums into his neck, presses a wet kiss onto his nape — that flares through Louis' body like a jolt, makes him bite on a moan and swallow it. Lestat, with a relaxed, unconscious intent, thrusts into his ass and grinds into him, shifting his palm from Louis' stomach to his hipbone.
Stills.
It's a matter of speed, then. Lestat's quicker than him, but he is also just woken up and still doesn't hunt regularly. Louis is wide awake, buzzing with energy. He turns back and grabs Lestat's wrist, "Wait."
"I apologize, I— I thought I would wake up before you, I—!" Lestat looks positively terrified. He doesn't breathe, hand held in the air by Louis, knee down in the bed, chest heaving. Louis sees his hard cock twitch in his dark-blue pajama pants and smiles.
"Come here, come on," Louis pulls him towards himself, back to closeness, Lestat's a hesitant animal. How many years can you spend getting to know any person? Lestat's panicked eyes over Louis' body, a linger in-between his legs, a shift towards meeting Louis' eyes. He finally takes a deep breath, the first since his attempt to jump out of bed. Louis sees Lestat's eyes fall half-lidded for a moment, fluttering of his eyelashes. Lestat's pulse picking up at the jugular vein and everywhere. Their hearts sigh and come in sync. That's right, Louis thinks, giddy. Smell me.
"Come back," he repeats. Lestat goes. Lies down farther than Louis wants, hips angled away from Louis, searching Louis' face. He opens his mouth, and Louis lays a thumb on his lower lip, stroking the soft wetness, maddened with a desire to kiss him.
"You wanna fuck me?" Louis asks quietly, fond at the punched-out, hurt sound leaving Lestat's lungs. Tenses his thighs.
"I want you always." Lestat's voice is so low that it seems that he speaks from a crack in his ribcage. He is still, so still, except for his upper lip touching Louis' nail on "w" in "want." He frowns in what he must imagine looks like disapproval: of Louis, of himself for answering. "You are aware of this, surely."
"Don't deflect," Louis frowns in response, mirroring him, and brings their hands, still joined, between them and to his chest, his fingers half-wrapped around Lestat's wrist. "Would you fuck me now?"
"Louis, what are you talking about," Lestat complains, miserable, glancing at Louis' raised eyebrow, a soft touch on "about." Louis strokes his wristbone. "I would, of course I would, however—"
Louis eats whatever Lestat felt like he needed to say, taking the hand from his mouth and kissing him. Eats a little gasp that follows, gently licks at the dip in his bottom lip, and dives into Lestat's saliva gathered on his tongue. His chest's light, his cock is throbbing at the taste, leaking. Lestat's mouth tastes so good. Louis' palm curls around Lestat's face, rubbing at the softness of his cheek, his cheekbone, the other still holding his wrist. He kisses him again, and again, and again, tasting him while he's almost completely immobile, eating up his spit, and, when Lestat finally—drowsily, his heart a heavy, loud drum in both of their chests—responds, Louis accepts his tongue into his mouth with a grateful whimper, suckles on it, laves its underside. He tastes so good.
"Louis," Lestat's murmurs, shocked, his voice low — this one, Louis said out loud—and separates a breath away from him. "You—"
"Would you fuck me like you want to? You should fuck me like you want to," Louis tells him, breathless, and feels like flying. His cheeks heat from embarrassment, from how much he wants it. "Want you to fuck me like you want to."
Lestat looks at him for a brief moment — Louis hears his heart stop and rumble, his irises reducing to a thin circle of luminous blue — and he is kissed again, with ferocious, overwhelming insistence. Louis' hips buck up at the weight of his tongue; he moans as Lestat puts a thumb on his bottom lip, his large palm covering his cheek. It's a gut-punching sensation, an echo of thousands, millions of kisses, familiar, and yet new, fresh, insenely good. Fuck.
"You're so gorgeous," Lestat is hoarse and helpless. He looks all around Louis' face, a small, dazed ghost of a mean smile in the corner of his lips, "and so wound up."
He presses a wet kiss to Louis' upper lip and licks over Louis' mouth—and his own thumb, a mirror—in a broad tongue stroke. The animal isn't nervous anymore. Louis's cock throbs, almost painfully, when he twists his tongue to cut it on Lestat's nail, and Lestat growls, eating up his blood mixed with the saliva from his mouth. Louis' eyelashes flutter. Lestat looks drunk. It's the first taste of Louis' blood he's had in a century. Louis is glad to give it to him like that. He feels light and real, their kisses loud, wet in the pale, fresh evening of this pace. He trails a hand that isn't still clutching Lestat's forearm down his chest, his abs — he's still so far away, why is he so far away, when they're here, they —
"Louis," Lestat — snarls, and when Louis' hand brushes over the edge of his pants, silk tenting above his hard cock, when he sneaks a hand under it and brushes a fingertip, softly, so so softly, on his weeping cockhead, Lestat comes with a painful groan right into his palm, huffing into his mouth. His eyes closed tightly above Louis' face, his breathing coming into short cycles, and Louis, shocked and unexpectedly, happily delighted, laughs into his cheek. Lestat groans and puts his face right into the pillow above Louis.
"It's me who pent up, huh," Louis laughs, stroking the softness of Lestat's cock, spreading his come around it. Lestat shudders in sensitivity, though Louis thinks he starts to hear quiet laughter from the pillow as well, as Louis strokes his cock which— barely softens before starting to fill up with blood again, covered in Lestat's spent. Louis spreads Lestat's come all over his groin, lightheaded at being able to touch him, his cock, his balls, his laughing stomach. Spreading the mess around. The room smells like it's a room where they fucked. Louis loves it.
He pulls his hand from Lestat's pants and sucks on his fingers when Lestat finally raises from the pillow. Lestat looks ravenous and happy, looking at the way Louis humps the air at the taste of his come.
"Go on," Louis pouts.
Lestat undresses him with carefulness that makes Louis frown and lets the clothes drop near the bed, and soon Louis is up on his elbows with legs spread before Lestat, raising his eyebrows at Lestat's reverent hesitation. The air brushes wetness between his legs. He's been leaking since he's dreamt of strong hands holding him, bringing him pleasure, loving him, from the tip of his cock to his hole, and being this wet feels about right in front of the man who holds his thighs. He thinks he's relaxed enough to take it just from imagining Lestat's cock inside, which he's not, but the thought makes his hips twitch. Lestat strokes his thighs. Presses a kiss on his knee, his breaths heavy and short. Touches and kisses all over his legs, except for down his calves, his feet. Something brims and crushes in Louis at the ghost of a shadow at Lestat's face, and he lets himself feel it, too.
"You really are a miracle," Lestat murmurs, and Louis' breath catches in his throat. Lestat leans closer to him and kisses the tip of his cock, nuzzles in his balls. Louis watches the planes of Lestat's back shift as his lungs expand, breathing him in. Louis is throbbing, leaking, and Lestat puts his palm there, into the wetness, into the mess, as he starts to kiss and lick all over his groin, worship him with his tongue. Broad, wide strokes, the sounds of slurping, swallowing. Lestat takes his balls inside, so tenderly, his free hand pets Louis' thigh, a soft, silent inquiry instead of groping and spread yourself more, cheri, show it off to me. Puts a kiss on the inner side of his thigh, brushes his fingertips across the other. Louis' back arches as he tries to put Lestat's mouth where he wants it the most: a soft pink on a bedside cabinet catches his eyes. Louis sits up — Lestat makes a grabby motion at his ass, which is — God, Fuck, What is His Life, — and looks up at him questioningly, an anxious crease near in-between his eyebrows. Louis gathers Lestat's hair in a hair tie. Lestat's fangs drop in his closed mouth: Louis knows that because the smells of their blood mix in the air.
"Lestat," Louis says, putting a thumb under Lestat's lower lip. His mouth drops open, and Louis dips his finger inside, puts it right under Lestat's fang, petting it up to his gums, gathering the redness and bringing it to his lips. Sucks Lestat's blood and spit from it, falls back on the bed, pulls his legs up, narrowly avoiding hitting Lestat on the forehead, and hears rumbling inside of the other's chest; shows off the way his hole clenches under Lestat's gaze, demanding, wanting. Lestat's blood sings inside of him, both fresh and old, all of it. Louis puts his toes under Lestat's chin and forces him to look at his face. "You didn't forget how to take care of me, did you?"
Lestat's gaze darkens even more, but his smile is tender, reaching his eyes. He leans forward and brushes low of Louis' belly with his lips, right above where his cockhead leaks now. He looks so good in-between Louis' legs, strong shoulders, bitten, wet hotness of his mouth, the way a grey henley Louis might have bought in several sizes bigger than his clings to his frame.
"I thought you said like I want to," Lestat whispers into his belly, raising an eyebrow at Louis. Louis' stomach tightens under Lestat's lips. He slips lower and puts the blunt of his human teeth into the meat of Louis' thigh and sucks on it so long, with such a fucking—patient intensity, like he wants to take this mouthful of flash out of his body. It's so—
"Oh fuck," Louis pants, digging his heels into Lestat's shoulder blades. He thinks about pressing at the bruise when they'll drift apart again, how many hours it will remain on his skin? Perhaps a day. He bucks his hips into Lestat's mouth, and Lestat shifts a millimeter to the left—a few millimeters closer to Louis' opening, and bites there, too. He's not drawing blood, just coaxes it up to the surface of his skin, brings it closer to his mouth. Marks him. Louis imagines the pleiade of hickeys leading right up to his hole. Thinks of the rapturous pleasure of his maker's fangs in his body, and denies that to them both, moaning, wanting his tongue, wanting him inside. Lestat's soft laugh between his legs, it seems, bruises him too, "oh god, please," he whimpers, reduced to this already, and it feels so good, "please." Louis grabs the base of his cock to stave off the crush of an orgasm until he's full, but Lestat catches his wrist, licks over his fingertips, kisses them.
"Do not hold back on my account," Lestat says, putting a small lick on the underside of Louis' dick, his voice dropping, "that pretty cock of yours clearly needs a break." Louis doesn't quite hold back an undignified, outraged squeak, and Lestat smiles at him again. "Touch something else." Lestat puts his mouth back to work. Louis puts his hands on his knees, then on the bed. He doesn't actually want to touch anything. Do anything. He wants Lestat to have four hands.
It will be a line, from the softness of his thigh right to his hole, Louis thinks dazedly. He is in the every cell of his heated body, responding to Lestat wringing pleasure and tingling, delicious pain out of him. When Lestat's lips are a millimeter away from his hole, he's even more drenched than before, his thigh, his ass feels like it's gripped, even though Lestat's not holding it anymore, relying on Louis to keep himself open. Lestat brushes a fingertip on his perineum, barely there. Blows on his hole. Puts his lips to it and licks in, in already, groaning against it like he's starving for it, and Louis finds himself unable to keep his legs up, to hold himself in any sort of still tension — his spine arches up as he tries to fuck himself onto Lestat's relentless tongue, kisses, bites on and near his rim, and he comes — long, drawn-out orgasm that leaves him even more hungry but laxer, softer, arousal transforming from into a larger, voluminous craving without the edge. He puts his palm on Lestat's head, listening to his grunts, his heart throbbing, body shivering from arousal. Lestat is so perfect with his tongue. Louis almost wants him to stay there forever.
"You're so soft here, so warm," Lestat pants and sucks on his rim more. Louis shivers, sensitive and hungry, already imagining the way he'll take all of Lestat's cock through these bruises. They make him feel emptier. Louis tightens around Lestat's tongue and whines, grabs at his hair, shoulders, pulls away the tie, pushes him away, and gets up into his face again. Kisses his reddened mouth in desperation. He can't get the words out, but Lestat sits up and brings him into his lap, latches onto his throat with sucking kisses, his hand playing with Louis' nipples. They are both so sweaty. Louis grinds his drenched, empty hole at Lestat's pants, grinds, tries to get his clothed and hard again cock inside. Mewls into Lestat's mouth, out of his mind with greed for it. Lestat's hands smoother his sides, his mouth, back on Louis', is hot and tasty, and Louis is going to cry if he doesn't have his cock right this minute. "Jesus," Lestat mumbles, "mon cher." Louis loses it.
"When I've just met you," Louis pants into Lestat's mouth, strokes his face with awkward, heavy hands, pets the corner of his wet lips, "I used to come home after our walks, lie down, and, and. Lower the pants under my ass and put a towel, like, between, between pants and my hole," Louis gulps on an inhale, voice raspy and soft, looking at Lestat's blown-out pupils for a second and trembles, grinding on the hardness under him, "I'd hump my palm, and grind up on a towel, imagining— Imagining you fuck me." Louis takes another inhale, giddy with arousal, rubbing his nose on Lestat's cheek. "Did you know?" Lestat swallows.
"I knew your lust," Lestat whispers, and Louis nods, nods, prompting him to continue, "Knew you find me attractive—" That's it, Louis asks, is that everything? "Knew your longing," Lestat says, even lower. "Your strength, your shame, your sorrow."
Louis nods and kisses him, kisses him more, groaning in his mouth, hands tangled in his hair. "Did you know how much I liked you?" He asks. Lestat's fingers finally lower between Louis' legs, rubbing at his softened hole. Louis sobs in relief, chest heaving.
"I knew you've imagined us flying when we first made love," Lestat murmurs, putting two of his fingers inside and growling, "fuckfuckfuck— Louis. Fuck. So small." Louis laughs into his mouth, enjoying the fullness he didn't experience for who knows how long — he does — Lestat is so fucking stupid, oh shit, Louis thinks, longing for what, laughs again, excited, the feeling bubbling in him and tangling with want, bone-deep. I dreamt of your cock for sure, but you were awkward as fuck, ridiculous, funny, kind — for heaven's sake — rude, entitled, unapologetic, and you listened to me, gossiped with me, and talked about almost everything in the world, and I loved you from the start, Louis thinks at Lestat, reveling in the fact Lestat can't hear him — and in the fact that he can think that, clear and true like a church bell.
"Louis," Lestat whispers, reverent, kissing him as he stuffs him with one more finger, which Louis grinds on, wiggling his ass, toes curling in anticipation of bigger fullness, "I thought I'd never hear you laugh."
I knew you'd figure it out, his vain ass said in New Orleans. Louis snorts and sobs when Lestat's fingers rub his prostate, so good; it's blasphemous how good it is. He bites at his lips not to let the words out and pulls at Lestat's hand. "You should fuck me, Les," he mumbles and wriggles out of his lap back on the bed and stretches towards the light switch of his bedside lamp. "I missed you."
A warm glow fills the room. Louis watches Lestat stand, pull the henley — completely soaked from Louis' grinding around on his stomach over his head, pull down his pants which are also — well. He's still thinner than Louis remembers, still weaker, but he smells like home and looks so good, his cock heavy, blood-reddened head peaking out of the foreskin.
"Come up here for a sec," Louis says, when Lestat resettles in between his legs and brings a pillow under his hips. He's black-eyed, shivery, high-strung, sweaty, Louis loves him like this a lot. Louis pats himself on the chest and smiles at him and Lestat almost — fucking — stumbles on his knees, moving forward, bringing his cock to Louis' face. He's so hard. Louis brushes his fingers on the length, tugs the foreskin down, loving the heft of him in his hand. A drop of precome falls on Louis' neck, and they both moan.
"Louis," Lestat calls. His hips flex, his abs, an effort to be still. Louis puts his fingers into the mess of him, to the slit, and leans up to taste his cock, a brush of tongue and a tight suction, just a little bit, just a taste. It's the same hot drop in his stomach as the first kiss. Louis hums around the mouthful, happy, sucks at the weight of it, and salivates at the taste as his eyes close in pleasure. His cock twitches on his stomach. He's so delicious, that's so good. Lestat's fingers stroke his cheeks, his lips. He's breathing heavily. Louis brings his tongue up to lick at the slit and swirl around the frenulum, enjoying content, lovely quiet in his mind that appears when Lestat's taste and smell and tactile joy of having Lestat in his mouth push out everything back, creating sweet, heady kind of focus, and leans back on the pillow, heated hum in his head. Swallows under Lestat's gaze.
For all Louis' experience in sex, gained through the decades they haven't seen each other, he is glad to feel a flicker of raw anxiety, when Lestat brushes his cock on his hole. He's so ready—not ready enough, of course, but he doesn't want to be ready enough — and Lestat looks perfectly good, exactly Louis's, but also off-kilter, like he looked the entirety of this evening. He doesn't know what this is, what is allowed. He almost doesn't talk. He's hesitant. Opens his mouth and doesn't say anything. It makes Louis annoyed, viciously satisfied, fond, a lot of things at once, as it has always been with Lestat, but different, and more somehow. Louis finds joy in this imprecision, in the abundance of feeling.
Louis sighs, takes his hand, and pulls him over into a kiss, bracketing him with his legs. Their cocks brush, and it's another echo — Lestat's large fullness against him, so silky, wet, and hard. He hears a rumble in Lestat's chest, nips at his lips. Lestat blinks at him.
"I love you," Lestat says finally, and searches Louis' face for displeasure, but Louis only turns his head and brushes his lips on Lestat's wrist, on the hand he isn't using to touch Louis' face. "I can only fuck you like I love you." Louis watches him swallow. "I only want to fuck you like I love you. I'm—" He takes a breath, biting the phrase off, "are you amendable?" He's such a fool, Louis thinks fondly, and kisses the bottom of his palm.
"Fuck me like you want to, Lestat," Louis repeats and presses Lestat's hand into his chest. "But fucking do it already, I should've come three times at this point."
He briefly glances at Lestat's face, looking for the signs of hurt, but finds his features relax, his eyes burning, as he grabs where he pressed a line of bruises into his thigh, hard. He kneads the flesh there in a hard grip for long seconds, lets go, and puts the head of his cock inside Louis' hole. Louis keens, grips at Lestat's neck, his forearms, lungs emptied out with a scream—fuck, fuck, he doesn't remember it being so—
"I want to live here," Lestat growls into his throat and fucks in, easy as breathing, and Louis, deliciously stretched, suspended in pleasure, accepts the blunt heaviness of Lestat's cock, feeling his hole relax and clench, like his body cannot believe what it's having inside. His hips raise up, along with his legs, wanting to feel—everything, to press Lestat in even more, more. Lestat's fingers brush over his hole, pet at the bruises and bite marks along the rim, and Louis sobs with the sensation. It's so good. "Your hole wants it too, I think, non? For me to stay, to always fuck it, always be in it?" Louis feels his cock leaking inside, oh holy fucking shit, he is so impossibly, wonderfully full.
Lestat doesn't stop for an answer — doesn't let him get used to the sensation — and Louis is happy for it, because as soon as Lestat starts moving, thrusting, pressing his prostate into a sweet, deep, thrilling pleasure, Louis comes with another scream, seeking Lestat's mouth, his tongue, his hands leaving claw marks on Lestat's back. He sees through the red haze of his tears Lestat smiling, a delighted, happy smile. He is so fucking large, so much larger than Louis remembered and had, and, lying under him, clenching around his cock in luxurious, mind-melting oversensitivity, Louis thinks that, yes, he and his hole wouldn't mind that. He rasps it, too, with a shocked giggle, dizzy and lightheaded from the orgasm, and feels Lestat's dick harden inside.
"I've just thought 'bout it while you slept," Louis confesses into Lestat's kisses, trying to arch up and rub his nipples at Lestat's chest hair, while he's being pounded into the mattress. "The way you've stayed inside me during some nights."
Lestat hums, leaning down to his chest, his thrusts growing meaner, wetter. "You've worked yourself up," he murmurs, a touch of soft wonder in the hunger of his voice. He sucks hard on Louis' nipple like he did with his thigh, grazes a tip with the edge of his teeth, leaves bite marks nearby. Louis starts getting hard again so quickly it's insane, shit, they've always been this good, they've always been this fucking good.
"I woke up with your dick pressing into my ass," Louis says, breathless, tugging Lestat's head to the other nipple, hearing his harsh breath. "What else was there to think about?"
"Mmhh, but of course," Lestat kisses his chest and pulls a hand down to where they've joined, where Louis leaks with Lestat's spit and precome, "I know how your cunt suffers when it's right there and you can't have it." Louis feels his face heating up and grinds his hips down, meeting Lestat's thrusts. "You didn't have to wait," Lestat murmurs into his cheek, a soft contrast to the harshness of his movements that brings melted, burning pleasure behind Louis' eyelids and into his chest. "You could have just used what you need, my princess, my heart, — it's all yours anyway."
Louis feels lit up from the core, sore in the best of ways, but also free, free, so fucking free that it's impossible to find any reason for restrain, "I know," he says to Lestat and feels his fangs grow in his mouth, his gums ache with hunger. He bites into Lestat's neck, and warm, wonderful blood fills him along with Lestat's come.
-
They don't separate afterward. Lestat stays inside for as long as he can and replaces his cock with two fingers when he cannot, then puts his paw between Louis' legs, cupping his cock, holding it, like he doesn't want to stop touching there, like in Louis' evening fantasy. Louis is flushed. They kiss, desperate, and then soft, sloppy. They stay unmoving, their lips touching with their breaths, Lestat's other hand under his neck, and, in between kisses and interruptions for listening to their heartbeat, Louis feels his palm drawing close to his hair and away from it. Close and away. Ridiculously, his ribcage squeezes. Lestat's fingertips finally caress the edge of his ear. Louis sighs into his mouth. He thinks he falls asleep mid- or quarter-in kiss, Lestat's palm squeezed between his thighs.
-
Waking is a weird thing. He rarely slept during the nights these past decades. Rarely slept after sex with Armand: Armand's comedowns were lengthy sometimes, and Louis had to stay awake in case something went wrong. In his childhood, when he took Paul to the lake to escape the summer heat, and they'd returned home pleasantly tired and refreshed, their wet hair messy, dried by the daylight, Louis' sore muscles inevitably making him drowsy, unfocused, his mother, more often than not, interrupted his short naps. She called him lazy or accused him of pushing his brother into danger, or both (alligators and his terrible moral character, always.) He thought that was because she, like God, knew. He knew the way his gaze stuck the muscles of strangers, sweaty, rowing along the coast, to the pronounced abs of the swimmers resting on the shores, lingering, minutely distracted from his little brother's ramblings, Paul enchanted with nature, ignorant of Louis' distractions. The way sin turned his eyes away from what's important. When mama didn't come, short and hot dreams of the water came, of strong bodies and their low, rumbustious laughter, and anxiety woke Louis in sweat, guilt, feeling dirty to the core.
Louis lies in the bed and thinks of those day naps, little siestas — but not really, if it's rest after rest — and his heart rumbles in tenderness for that boy for, he realizes, first time in his entire life, free of intellectualizing, of wrapping it up in new knowledge and language. Don't worry, he thinks to him, you gonna kiss your husband in front of the entire city in a few decades, pauses, before you almost kill him for being an atrocious piece of shit, but don't worry about it yet, too. Louis snorts, putting a forearm around his eyes, laughs quietly in the dark, interspersed with New York's city lights.
He finds Lestat sprawled on his kitchen chair in one earphone, sucking on the tube of AB package in his lap, back in his jeans and shirt, which colors remind Louis of Tanguy's subdued grey and lines of pink, yellow, muted green contrasting within linen on the peasant sleeves. The colors of the twenty-first century suit him. His shirt is unbuttoned. Louis watches him freeze. A curl falls out of his messy bun when he looks up at Louis, eyes shifting again, mouth slurping the blood.
"Left me in bed again," Louis raises an eyebrow. Lestat pulls the earbud out of the ear and stops the music. He didn't heal a bite on his neck, or — he hasn't been eating as well as Louis thought — and he looks Louis up and down, zeroing in on the hem of his t-shirt. It ends on the bottom line of his boxers. Louis knows Lestat, for at least a few moments, doesn't know if he's in underwear. The weight of his gaze like a hand on a thigh, a palm under the hem of the lounging robe, a finger brush above the upper line of stockings concealed beneath Louis' trousers, all a long, long time ago.
Louis' cock throbs, and he acutely feels Lestat's come inside of him. There could be more come.
Lestat moves towards him and whisper-growls his name into his smiling mouth, pressing him into the wall. Lestat licks the edge of his teeth and smiles, too, tender-feral, and Louis' entire body aches, heats even though teeth are just bones, unfeeling. Lestat makes his bones sensitive. He giggles and is kissed again.
-
"One would assume a conversation is in order." It’s funny how they’re both aware of the escape of the third person — Daniel made a point of it in his book— and yet. Lestat continues, “I thought there would be more negotiations for—“ a disruptive inhale, “sexual activities. If we will ever partake in them again.” That wretched book. Louis swallows and turns his head towards him. They lie under the table—Lestat’s hypnotizing the bottom of it; he would seem detached, subdued, if not for the heavy, fast beating of his heart, unclear if from exertion or nervousness. "I thought, well, if that ever happens, I must be prepared to grow accustomed to changes, but—" Lestat smiles, a small and fragile, proud thing. "These were not the changes I prepared for."
Their naked legs are entangled in the rectangular, warm light from the hall. Louis touches Lestat's sole with his toenails. "Didn't think there'd be anything but prepared yourself for submission?"
"Oh Louis!" Lestat laughs, startled, and rises up on his elbow, putting a palm under his cheek. He is definitely ticklish. How did Louis not know that before? Lestat smiles, deviously, knowingly. "I am always ready to submit to you." Louis pushes his shoulder with his forehead, reprimanding. "I love taking care of you, in any way. All ways. Al—"
"Don't say it."
"All-ways," Lestat murmurs into his temple. His voice drops into his lungs—into Louis' diaphragm. "I also know you enjoyed being taken care of. I am happy you still do."
Lestat plants a kiss on his temple. Louis sighs. He listens to the noise of Manhatten down on the street and breathes. It's hotter than four decades ago here, more humid. He smells the rain brewing, spring rain. The colors will be washed all over the roads piercing the city the next night. They have four hours until sunset now. Lestat's smell fits this city. Louis turns to him, puts his face into his naked chest; Lestat's hand obediently goes around his back, fingers drawing circles between his shoulder blades.
"You're companion enough for yourself now," Lestat says, "but you wish for me to be, how do they call it, hmm, plan cul, a sex friend? Friend with benefits?"
Louis snorts.
"This is a serious conversation, Saint Louis," Lestat whisper-complains, "please, engage."
"What would you make it, Lestat?" He asks his man's chest. "Fuck buddies or platonic friends?"
"Oh, let me consider it," Lestat sighs theatrically. Takes a pause. "Both options are quite devastating and will, inevitably, destroy me."
Louis leans away from his chest and looks up. He catches a twinkle in the luminosity in his eyes, darkened by the shadows that envelop their heads. Lestat looks soft and lax, like a sated predator. After they have reconnected, in one bout of anger and hurt — some comment about Armand's manipulation goading his weak Louis into illicit acts (he didn't say that exactly, but that was the point, and it made Louis furious) — Louis told him that after Lestat dropped him he thought that bedding him was the only way to prevent being hurt — and he heard Lestat's words collide, crumble in his throat an ocean away. He was surprised when Lestat wrote him in two weeks for a call, per schedule. That one the truth. The other was that Louis was, is, bone-tired of convincing himself that's the only truth that exists.
"You sound overjoyed," Louis murmurs.
"Naturally," Lestat responds, a jolt of wonder in his voice. "You have allowed me into your life. I am lucky to be there in whatever way you would have me. How can I be anything but."
"You ain't wanting whatever way, though," Louis notes. Watches Lestat's eyes darken.
"Louis," Lestat chides, "do not be cruel to me just yet. What do you want, hmm? Fuck-buddies," Louis huffs; it's funny when he says it, like it's affronting and too modern for his mouth to pronounce, though it's an illusion, splinters over his long and wounded memory; within its bounds, Lestat is a man who exists here and a century back, "or not?"
"Mmm," Louis mirrors, a jab-wave to that suspended moment in Magnus' tower. He recalls the taste of Lestat's blood in the summer, a taste that shared a fraction of his story from the worst day of Louis' life. "What was your favorite food when you were human?"
"Quoi?" Lestat's eyes widen as if he is astounded, but Louis feels him tense — more so than when Louis revealed he wanted him but not more than during the hurricane.
"Did you have a sweet tooth?"
"Louis."
"I loved dewberries—they started ripening around this time, in fact. Grace and I went to the old sugar mill on the farm for them, for jam, allegedly, but we've eaten lots of them, too. Lots," Louis puts a finger on Lestat's opening mouth and gives him a warning look. "I was a messy eater. Once, Grace told me the juice looked like lipstick on my lips."
Their hands were all in the dewberry juice, too, and they were often scolded over being late to the kitchens. During one such spring, father took Louis to the shade behind the kitchens and looked at him like he didn't like him. He said Louis spent too much time with his sister and put a cane knife in his hands, saying he had to be showing his baby brother how to be a man, now that he has a baby brother.
Louis shakes his head. He knows his smile is crooked. "Don't laugh," he says to Lestat, preparing for laughter.
"I do not understand," Lestat says instead, eyes wondering around Louis' face, and perhaps it's worse than laughter because Louis knows it's a lie.
"You knew so much of my life before you brought me a Gift," Louis explains because he wants it out of his hands. "I want to know about yours. Sorrow and shame and all the s— tuff."
Lestat's eyebrow lifts in an attempt to condescend. A spark of familiar annoyance goes off in Louis' chest, but Lestat's patronizing sneer gets carefully blank, a wash. In his heart of hearts, Louis knows that Lestat is, too, confronted by an echo of an expression he often turned to a vampire with million questions a century ago. Louis is all out of questions. He wants to be someone Lestat shares all of himself with, not just love and resentful fear that goes with the loving, however enormous both are. He's had that and has.
"You don't have to tell," Louis says lightly, hiding a sliver of satisfaction, and Lestat lets out a snort, shooting him a look from the side. "It's not a deal-breaker. We don't have to give each other everything we want. But that's what I want."
"Charming and devious," Lestat murmurs with a wistful smile.
-
"I didn't know about the dewberries," Lestat informs him scratching his head: he hit the bottom of the table when they stood up and moved to the shower, preparing to watch The Wailing, which, as Louis was informed by the Rotten Tomatoes review, is about policemen not listening to warnings of people who know better. Of course, you didn't, Louis thinks, watching from the corner of his eye as Lestat evaluates the state of his shirt, raising it to the light, watching strong, lovely muscles of his back. He didn't even realize Louis was desperately in love with him, what's to say about decades-long childhood memories.
Louis hums in response.
His body is loose-limbed from fucking, the back stiff a bit from lying on the floor afterward. It's good to feel the traces of pleasure left all over him, inside him, a line of bruises still pronounced on his ass, sore tenderness of his mouth. Left by Lestat. He closes his eyes and stretches — full-body, arms up — satisfied, feeling the soft bathrobe slide up on his skin.
He meets Lestat's darkened eyes in the mirror, his starved look, cheekbones almost blushed with desire, and bites his lip, making a step forward.