Work Text:
September 8th, 2025
22:48
Lestat de Lioncourt | 3 hours ago
Good evening, Louis. This may not be entirely appropriate, given how long it’s been since we last spoke, but I find myself in need of professional discretion. I have a situation. I believe it requires a PI. I’m prepared to compensate you generously.
Louis leaves his phone where it lies on the bar, face-up and accusing, half-stuck to a counter that had never fully dried no matter how often it was wiped down. The place smells like old citrus cleaner and spilled beer, the river breathing in through the open door. Somewhere behind him, a fan rattles against a loose screw. A Saints game murmurs from a television no one is watching.
He reads the message once. Then again, slower. By the third time, the words don’t change, and neither does the name. That’s what unsettles him. Not the job. Not even the money. Work is work, and lately work has been thin enough that he’s taken cases he’d once turned his nose up at without a second thought. Domestic disputes. Missing rings. A husband who swore his wife had a second phone and needed someone else to tell him so. Those cases keep the lights on.
But this—
This is Lestat.
The name moves through Louis the way a mosquito does, high and persistent, impossible to swat without leaving a mark. He lowers his head and curls his hand around his glass, condensation slick against his palm, and takes the whiskey back in one swallow. It burns clean. He welcomes it. Louis lets the noise of the bar blur at the edges and focuses on the practical things instead. Calendar. Rent. The fact that generosity usually comes with expectations. He exhales through his nose, sets the empty glass aside, and finally picks up the phone.
Louis de Pointe du Lac | Now
Hello, Lestat. It’s been a while. I have availability tomorrow and the day after if you’d like to meet for an initial consult. This would be informal. We’ll discuss details and next steps then. Let me know what works for you.
Louis sets his phone back on the bar and feels the tremor then, faint but undeniable, a small betrayal in his hand. The glass in front of him is empty anyway, sweat-ringed and dull, so he fishes a few bills from his wallet, leaves them flattened beneath the bartender’s elbow, and shoulders his way through the heavy door.
Outside, the night hits him all at once. Wet heat. Music thumping distantly from somewhere down the block. The sour-sweet smell of trash, fried food, and rain that never quite fell. He turns into the narrow alley beside the bar, where the light overhead flickers like it’s thinking about quitting, and pulls a cigarette from the pack.
Tap. Tap. Flame.
He draws in slowly, his eyes lifting to the street beyond the alley mouth.
The city is alive in that particular way it gets after ten. A man and a woman shove at each other, laughing a little too freely. A pack of drunks stumble past, loud for the sake of it. Across the street, two men are pressed together against a brick wall, kissing with the kind of abandon that suggests they’ve already decided how the night will end.
Louis exhales, smoke sliding from his mouth in a pale ribbon, bitterness settling on his tongue. The whiskey hums through him now, warming his skin from the inside out, loosening the careful seams he keeps stitched tight. His gaze lingers on the couple longer than it should. Long enough to feel the pull low in his gut, sudden and unwelcome.
It must be the drink. The hour. Fatigue catching up with him. But the truth presses closer, prodding and persistent. Getting a message from Lestat even after all this time has knocked something loose. Just a name on a screen, nothing explicit, nothing improper, and still it’s enough to stir something indecent and confusing, something Louis has spent years sanding down to a manageable edge.
He drags on the cigarette again, deeper this time, until the smoke burns hot in his chest and the back of his throat. He wants it to hurt. Wants the sharpness to cut through the warmth pooling in him, the way memory rises like bile when he lets his guard slip.
He looks back at the couple once more, then away, grinding the cigarette between his fingers.
Even after all this time.
April 22nd, 2015
04:33
“Will you stay the night, beau? Et si I say please?”
The question lands softly and still manages to knock the air from Louis’ chest.
He stares at Lestat for a long, stupid second, caught between thought and instinct. Moonlight slips through the narrow window beside the bed, catching on sharp cheekbones and the elegant sprawl of him, hair mussed, skin warm and bright with exertion. Lestat looks utterly unbothered by the moment’s weight, as if intimacy were something he wore easily, like silk shrugged on and off.
Louis swallows. His jaw goes slack before he remembers to close it. There’s still the taste of salt on his tongue, the phantom warmth of hands and breath. His knees tremble with a strange, unmoored sensation, his body still remembering Lestat’s earnest power—the slow, sensuous roll of hips, the taut flex of muscle rippling beneath warm skin, that slick hold that clenched around him. Twenty-three years old and finally past an ugly, private shame Louis had never admitted aloud—that he’d reached this age without ever having crossed that particular line of intimacy during his infrequent hook-ups.
If Lestat noticed the hesitation that had clung to Louis earlier, the careful way he’d moved, the way he’d needed a second longer to find confidence, he gave no sign of it. Lestat has been nothing but generous. Vocal. Fearlessly present. The kind of man who fills space without apology.
He’s a few years older, Louis guesses. Old enough to wear certainty like a second skin.
Louis had tried to sound older himself when he’d first spoken to him at the bar, had dragged his voice low and rough, and hoped it passed for experience. It hadn’t mattered. Lestat had leaned in anyway, eyes bright with interest, as if Louis’ restraint were something worth undoing. He hadn’t heard a voice like Lestat’s before that night. Not until it rose over the bandstand, alive and unashamed, threading French vowels through the smoke and brass and sweat. Louis had looked up from his drink then, caught before he could look away. It's a lounge held together by those whose complexions match Louis’ own—by musicians who’ve earned every inch of that stage in a city that too often shuts its doors to them. A pale-faced performer up there is still something to note. And yet Lestat moved like he understood where he stood, laughing when the band needled him. Bold. Unselfconscious. Entirely himself.
Louis had learned early to keep certain observations to himself. The way his attention lingers too long on beautiful men. The quiet, instinctive inventory his eyes make before his conscience catches up. He’s learned to file it away, unexamined. So when he looked at Lestat, he did it quickly, almost reflexively. Muscled arms bare beneath rolled sleeves. A narrow waist that moved with careless confidence. Ivory skin that seemed to catch the low light and hold it. Hair the color of late-afternoon gold, loose and glossy, falling into his eyes. Undeniably attractive.
Louis wasn’t the only one who noticed. He’d heard a cluster of women nearby whispering, half-laughing, calling him sculpted, unreal, something mythic dragged out of marble and dropped into a dive that smelled like beer and brass. A Greek god, one of them had murmured.
And still, none of that compared to his voice.
The pianist eased him in gently, and then Lestat stepped into the sound, baritone at first, smooth and deep as poured honey. The note climbed without warning, lifting cleanly into falsetto and holding there, suspended long enough that Louis realized he’d stopped breathing. Goosebumps chased up his arms. Luminous blue eyes swept the crowd as he sang. When they brushed over Louis, seated half-hidden at the edge of the room with a lukewarm beer sweating into his palm, something in him straightened instinctively, like he’d been called to attention without hearing his name.
Louis told himself he didn’t need to do anything about it. But he did need—at the very least—to speak to that voice.
He waited until the set ended, until applause loosened into noise again, then crossed the room on legs that felt steadier than he expected. Compliments came easily enough. Gratitude, appreciation. He offered to buy Lestat a drink, casual, like it hadn’t taken any effort at all. He leaned where he meant to lean, let his jaw set just so, tipped his head back when he took a drag from his spliff, exposing the line of his throat like it was nothing.
Lestat watched him with open interest, eyes bright, expression alight with something like delight. His accent wrapped around every word, warm and musical, as he spoke about the city with reverence, about the culture and the music like he’d been waiting to fall in love with them. He listened closely, too, like Louis was saying something worth keeping.
They were only a drink or two in when Lestat leaned close, breath hot at Louis’ ear, voice dropping conspiratorially, tinged with malt and promise. He asked, lightly, if Louis might care to join him for a nightcap.
Louis said yes before he had time to reconsider.
Now, as the room cools, the scent of sweat and cologne lingering in the still air, glasses sweating on the nightstand, and sheets in disarray, the realization settles: it had been a mistake, and Louis’ already steeling himself to dim Lestat’s easy brightness.
“Cat got your tongue,” Lestat says lightly, smile tugging at his mouth, “or do I simply look so striking I’ve rendered you speechless?”
Louis clicks his teeth and looks away before the laugh can escape him. He reins his face back into something neutral, something safer. The buzz is thinning now, warmth ebbing, clarity creeping in with all its inconvenient consequences. This is where he usually gets himself into trouble—letting things linger past the point of sense.
He hadn’t thought this through. Shouldn’t have let it get this close, this personal. He’s got plans. A line he’s been walking carefully. A fledgling career he’s built with his own hands, case by case. A family watching him, whether they say it out loud or not. Bills. Expectations. A mortgage that doesn’t care about chemistry or angelic voices.
“Funny,” Louis says finally, voice settling into something measured. “I was just thinkin’. This was a good time. A real good time.”
Lestat’s expression shifts immediately. The brightness dims, cheeks hollowing slightly as a crease pulls between his brows. Damp strands of hair cling to his forehead and the back of his neck, the careless glamour of him undone just enough to feel tender. If Louis were less determined, he might find it endearing.
“You intend to leave,” Lestat says, the words soft but certain.
Louis draws in a breath. There it is. No dressing it up now.
“It’s just—” He pauses, searching for language that won’t sound like a rejection even as it very much is. “I don’t usually do this. Not like this. I’m not… out. Not really. There’s a lot I’m still sortin’ through.”
He risks a glance back. Lestat is watching him closely.
“And you’re a…” Louis trails off, jaw tightening. “You deserve better than half-steps. Better than what I can offer right now.” He exhales, steadying himself. “If you keep takin’ gigs around here, I’m sure I’ll see you again. I’d like that. Just—clean. On speaking terms. Nothin’ messy.”
The words sound reasonable. Responsible. They sit heavy between them all the same.
Lestat’s face stills, expression smoothing into something carefully unreadable. His mouth presses into a thin, elegant line. For a moment, Louis thinks he’s misjudged him entirely.
Then Lestat reaches out.
The sheets whisper as he stretches, fingertips cool as they trace the rise of Louis’ collarbone, follow the length of his arm, curl lightly around his hand as if committing it to memory. His lips are still flushed, a little swollen at the center, marked by Louis’ earlier impatience. The sight of it twists something low in Louis’ chest.
“Hm. I understand,” Lestat says at last.
Louis blinks. “You do?”
“Oui.” Lestat reaffirms, the sound carrying more disappointment than anger. “Even though I feel we are exquisitely suited. Both devoted to music. Both in love with this city. Fluent in our native tongues—you, Creole; me, Français. We bantered beautifully.” His mouth quirks despite himself. “And we are, objectively speaking, both quite handsome, non?”
Louis snorts softly and swings his legs off the bed, the cool air biting at skin still warm with shared heat. “Pure coincidence.”
“Pour l’amour de Dieu,” Lestat sighs, rolling his eyes. “The nihilist to my romantic. Very well. Have it your way.”
He rises with exaggerated reluctance, gathering scattered clothing with unspeakable grace for someone so unapologetically bare. They exchange numbers standing half-dressed in the dim light, conversation drifting into something light and oddly easy. Lestat talks about upcoming gigs. Louis brings up work in turn, mentioning how the nightlife has been good for networking connections, and asks Lestat to pass his name along if anyone needs his services. It all feels too normal for what it threatens to become.
At the door, Louis reaches for the handle.
“Oh, absolutely not,” Lestat says, affronted. “You skip straight past aftercare and head for departure? Cruelty.” He steps closer, voice softening. “At least one kiss. For decency.”
Louis gives in.
Lestat’s hands frame his jaw, thumbs warm against his cheeks. The kiss is gentle at first, sweet, almost chaste—then deepens just enough to make Louis’ breath hitch, to make the door press cool and solid against his back. It’s brief. It’s dangerous.
When they part, Louis keeps his eyes down. He manages a goodbye that sounds steady enough and slips out into the early-morning quiet, the city waiting for him with damp air and distant birdsong.
He doesn’t look back.
He tries, for the next ten years, not to think about that kiss.
September 10th, 2025
15:15
“Ah, Louis, there you are. Forgive my lateness—je m’excuse. My manager caught me on the way over. Venue mix-up. Dreadfully dull.”
Louis looks up from the fingerprint-smeared window, his own reflection blurring into the street beyond as Lestat approaches the booth. He takes in the movement first—the confidence, the ease—before anything else has time to register.
The diner is exactly where Louis had meant to bring him. Not the places he saves for real money or real trouble. This one is for small cases. Petty ones. Domestic messes that don’t deserve linen napkins or low lighting.
The food, at least, is reliable. Gumbo dark enough to stain the spoon. Shrimp and grits that don’t pretend to be anything but filling. Cajun fries fried hard, crisp at the edges. Comfort food. The kind that settles you whether you want it to or not. It pulls at something old in him—Sundays when his mama cooked early and let it carry through the house, spice and heat clinging to every room until his brother complained and someone cracked a window just to keep the peace.
Louis had ordered a small cup of jambalaya. It arrived too fast, steam curling up in a way that should’ve been tempting. He hasn’t touched it. The spoon still sits clean where he left it.
Outside, people drift past in uneven bursts, crossing the street in twos and threes. Louis passed the time watching them the way he watches everything, weighing exits, weighing consequences. He’d briefly considered leaving—slipping out before Lestat arrived and pretending the meeting never made it onto his calendar. The impulse passed.
Across from him, Lestat pauses at the end of the booth—more solid, more striking than the phantom Louis has carried for years, assembled from fading memory and avoidance. He doesn’t look even remotely troubled by the place. Dressed in black, comfortable but deliberate—a fitted tee tucked into loose-legged trousers, a brown belt worn like an afterthought. Silver jewelry catches the diner’s flat overhead light when he moves, glinting at his wrist and throat. His blond hair is half pulled back, careless in a way that still looks intentional.
He looks pleased. Genuinely so. Lestat takes in the diner with open curiosity—the cracked vinyl booths, the faded menu board, the coffee-stained counter—like he’s been invited somewhere charming. His smile spreads wide, dimpling his cheeks as he waits, bright-eyed, expectant.
“Oh—yeah. Afternoon, Lestat.” Louis straightens slightly, schooling his voice into something neutral and professional. “Don’t worry about it. I know how it goes sometimes.” He studies him for a beat, then adds, dryly, “Good to see you live and in the flesh. Though from what I hear, that’s not exactly a rare occurrence these days. Sounds like you’ve been thrivin’.”
He lifts a hand, palm open, gesturing to the empty booth. “Go on. Take a seat.”
That does it. Lestat’s head tilts, eyes flashing with interest. He slides into the booth with easy grace, smoothing down his shirt, arranging himself comfortably. By the time he looks back up at Louis, he’s settled into a casual sprawl that somehow still reads as attentive.
“Hm,” Lestat hums, clearly amused. “The birds have been chirping through the grapevine, I see. Merci nonetheless.” He tips his head, eyes sparkling. “And I could say the same of you, private eye Louis—keeping quiet watch over the city when the authorities, as they so often do—” he flicks a hand airily, “—inevitably fail through sheer, serial incompetence. Admirable. Charitable, even.”
Louis snorts softly and stirs his spoon once through the jambalaya, watching a shrimp surface and sink again in the dark broth. The steam carries spice and heat up into his face.
“Yeah, well. I help where I can.” He shrugs, not bothering to look up. “Work’s slow these days. Tourism’s muckin’ up what used to be a tight-knit thing. Folks come and go, don’t know nobody, don’t wanna know nobody. Hard to keep connections when half the city’s just passin’ through.”
He scoops up a bite, then tips the spoon and lets it slide back into the stew before adding, “And I’m not exactly jumpin’ at the chance to chase tourist crimes. Mostly I end up dealin’ with lover's quarrels and petty grievances.”
Lestat’s expression softens, mouth pulling into a sympathetic downturn.
“It’s a pity,” he says, concern threading his voice. “I feel it as well. In the venues—tourists talk over my vocals, tip poorly, drink themselves bold and belligerent.”
His nose wrinkles. “Une saleté dégoûtante.” Then, with feeling: “New Yorkers.”
Louis can’t help the laugh that slips out of him, low and brief, caught behind his palm. “Damn. It’s like that, huh?” He glances up at Lestat, sarcasm settling comfortably into his voice. “Interrupting the local legend—Lestat de Lioncourt—has gotta rank top ten on the list of capital offenses.”
Lestat’s expression eases immediately, pleased, his mouth curving like Louis has offered him a gift. The sight of it makes Louis narrow his eyes just a touch.
“And,” Louis continues, letting the humor sharpen, “is inciting revenge on some loud-mouthed heckler the reason you invited me out here today?”
He folds his hands neatly on the table, posture shifting without him thinking about it. Professional. Contained. This is the part where the room gets quiet.
Lestat shakes his head once, slow and deliberate. “Un instant.”
He flags down the server with effortless charm and orders a coffee—blackened mug, double creamer—like he’s got all the time in the world. When the server leaves, he draws in a measured breath, gaze drifting to the diner window, where passing shadows smear together on the glass.
Then his eyes return to Louis.
Something about the pause sets Louis on edge. The way Lestat looks at him, open and intent all at once, like he’s deciding how much truth to offer. Louis shifts slightly in his seat, the faint hum of nerves prickling under his skin.
“I hate to compound your monotony,” Lestat says at last, voice dipping into something almost solemn, “but I do have a suspicion concerning someone I love.” He lets the words hang there, heavy, as if they cost him something to say.
Louis watches him closely. He’s seen this posture before—in spouses who already know the answer, in men who want permission to be hurt.
Lestat bows his head, then lifts a hand to his chest, palm pressed flat over his heart. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he continues, quieter now, “but I’m engaged. To Antoinette.” He glances up, gauging Louis’ reaction. “She’s the beauté brune who sings on retainer at Velours, the club uptown. We met a few years ago. Talked. One thing became another.” His mouth quirks faintly. “And here we are.”
He folds his hands together on the table, fingers lacing and unlacing. “The wedding’s set for about a year from now. But I’ve begun to doubt.” A sigh slips out of him, “Her moods have turned erratic. Calls go unanswered. She stays overnight after gigs that don’t warrant it, far from home.”
Lestat’s gaze sharpens, blue eyes cutting back to Louis. “I suspect un autre amant.” He shrugs, as if trying to make peace with it. “And as heartbroken as I may be, I would rather know now than bind myself to a marriage already hollowed out.”
Louis nods once, slow, spoon clanging softly as he lets it rest against the bowl. Infidelity cases. His bread and butter. Simple on paper. Rarely simple in practice. He exhales through his nose, already tallying time, risk, payment.
“All right,” he says evenly.
Louis lets the silence stretch a beat, long enough to hear the sizzle from the kitchen and the scrape of a chair somewhere behind him. The diner smells like coffee gone bitter on the burner and hot grease cooling too slowly. Outside, a bus groans past, rattling the window.
“For this to work,” he warns, clarifying. “If this is really what you think it is, we don’t start with dramatics. We start with patterns.”
Lestat leans in a fraction, elbows settling on the table. “I’m listening.”
“If you are engaged, I'm sure you have access to her devices,” Louis continues. “Phone plan, cloud backups. You know her passcodes?”
“Of course. She insists transparency is romantic... at least she used to spout that, when we first began going out.”
Louis hums. Figures. “Then here’s what we do. I don’t need to follow her right out the gate. Not yet. That costs time and visibility.” He glances at the untouched jambalaya, then back up. “You give me access to her phone—messages, call logs. I’ll mirror it. Quietly. I’m not interested in content unless there’s a reason. Frequency’s what matters. Who she’s talking to, when, how often. People tell on themselves without sayin’ a word.”
Lestat’s eyes light, sharp with interest. “You’ll be able to see everything.”
“Enough,” Louis corrects. “I don’t go diggin’ where I don’t need to. If there’s someone else, they’ll leave a trail. Always do.”
Lestat nods, thoughtful now, fingers tracing the rim of his coffee mug as the server drops it off. He breathes in the steam like it’s something comforting. “And how will we communicate?” he asks. “I imagine discretion is key.”
Louis hums, affirmative.
“You imagine right.” He reaches into his jacket and slides his burner phone across the table. The plastic makes a dull sound against the laminate. “I’ll call you. Not text. Between eight and ten at night. Be sure to find yourself in a private vicinity to accept these calls, no wandering ears.”
“Every night?” Lestat asks, taking a tiny testing sip from his coffee.
“Only when there’s somethin’ to say,” Louis replies. “Otherwise, I don’t waste your time or mine.”
Lestat smiles at that, wide and unguarded. “I’ll make myself available,” he says lightly. “Eight to ten. I’ll be waiting.”
Louis meets his gaze, unblinking. “This stays clean,” he urges. “You don’t confront her. You don’t tip your hand. You act normal. Let me do the lookin’.”
Lestat lifts his hands in surrender. “I can be very well-behaved,” he promises, then adds, quieter, “when it matters.”
Louis isn’t sure he believes that, but belief isn’t part of the job. Results are.
He pushes his spoon aside and stands, already mentally drafting timelines, contingencies, invoices. “I’ll need the phone tonight. Unlocked. I’ll take care of the rest virtually.”
Lestat nods up at him, idly dipping a manicured finger into his coffee to taste.
“I knew you were the right man for this,” he cocks his head, a small smile at his lips. “Ever attentive. Ever thorough.”
Louis shoulders his jacket, unimpressed. “This ain’t a game. It’s work.”
Lestat’s smile doesn’t dim. If anything, it sharpens.
September 15th, 2025
20:03
Call Log: Client Lioncourt
“Louis—est-ce bien toi?”
“Yeah. It’s me. Callin’ with an update.”
“Ah—oui. I’ve been waiting. Nervously. It’s good to hear your voice on the line. Or—well. Anyone’s, really.”
“Mmh. I've noticed your calls to Antoinette have all gone unanswered. Every one of ’em. No returns.”
“You’d think I’d be accustomed to that by now. And yet.” Lestat exhales. “It still manages to sting.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” Louis says evenly. “One way or another. You’ve been makin’ the effort, at least.”
“Yes, yes.” Relief threads Lestat's voice immediately. “And you still have full access to her communications, non?” Another pause, sharper now. “You’ve seen my messages.”
“Yeah. I have.”
“I’ve been… trying things that used to work. Early days enticements. Mirror shots. A little skin. Low light. Angles she used to like. I thought I knew what she wanted.”
“I saw. They’re good. Could just be she’s got you muted. Don’t read too much into silence.”
“Do you like them?”
“Hm?”
“The photos. Do you think they’re… decent? You can be honest. I don’t have much pride left. This is already mortifying.”
“They’re good,” Louis says, steady. “Tasteful. You know what you’re doin’. I liked the one in the mirror—the one with your hair pulled back. Only one you were smilin’ in.”
“Merci pour saying so. I had just rewatched an old duet of ours. Put me in a rare, buoyant mood.” He laughs bitterly. “At least someone appreciates them. I was beginning to think I’d forgotten how.”
“Nah—no, Lestat. You’re a good-lookin’ man. Always have been. This reads like a rough patch, not a verdict. Don’t let it curdle into insecurity. I couldn't help but notice you look more at ease when you’re smilin’. Softer.”
"Hm."
Louis clears his throat. “What is worth noting—Antoinette’s been makin’ outgoing calls to the same number twice a day. Same windows, near enough to clockwork. I tried tracing it, but it’s goin’ nowhere. Burner, maybe an older handset. It’ll take me a little longer to pin down an IP.”
“Ah.” A quiet, unhappy sound. “Bad news, then. Depressing, certainly. Thank you for telling me.”
“Course. I’ll check back once I’ve dug deeper into that number and how she’s interactin’ with it. In the meantime—try not to let this take over your head. Stay busy. Work. Music. Whatever keeps you upright.”
“Merci, Louis. I appreciate the thought.”
September 20th, 2025
21:48
Call Log: Client Lioncourt
“Bonsoir, Louis. How are you?”
“Same as usual. I’d ask after you, but given the circumstances, that feels unnecessary.”
Lestat laughs, softly. “You really don’t soften the edges, do you? I find that refreshing.”
“Yup. So, I see you’ve escalated to love songs via voice memo. You want to talk about that, or should I pretend I didn’t hear ’em?”
“… You can talk about it. I know you’re seeing everything.” He sighs. “I’m just—desperate. I don’t know what else to do to get her attention.”
“For what it’s worth,” Louis notes, “your singin’s still hypnotic. Under normal circumstances, most people would’ve folded after that. Smart song choice, too. French suits you best. Comes off smooth. Hard to imagine she didn’t listen, even if she didn’t answer.”
“You really think so?” Hope flickers through Lestat's voice. “That used to be our song. Corny, I know. First dance.” A quieter laugh. “She was never much of a danseuse.”
“Yeah. It’s effective. You’re really pullin’ on the heartstrings. That said—yesterday you told me you first noticed Antoinette when she was onstage. But in one of your voice memos, you said you initially caught sight of her in a crowd during your set. Said you nearly forgot the words, somethin’ about her beauty bein’… captivante.”
“Yes. That’s true. I may have misspoken before. It was during my own performance. I saw her there, standing just beyond the lights. Si frappante. The most beautiful thing I had seen in years.”
“Mmh.”
“She wasn’t trying,” Lestat continues, carried along now. “Just leaning, listening. Relaxed. But her eyes—ah.” A soft, reverent laugh. “Her eyes told me I had captured her completely. That she was already mine in that moment.”
Louis exhales through his nose. “Sounds like a hell of a first impression.”
“Oui. “Magical.”
“’Bout as magical as it gets around here.”
"Indeed."
“So—what I called about. She’s started texting that same number again. Regularly. Getting sloppy with it. Probably doesn’t think anyone’s paying attention.”
“When?”
“Right after she leaves certain… visits.” Louis keeps his voice flat. “You follow.”
Silence. Then, low: “Is that so.”
“Yeah. I’m sparing you the details. Point is, if she keeps this up, I’ll have enough to say what’s what. Clean. Defensible. No guesswork. You want me to keep pushin’?”
“Yes.” Quicker than before. “Yes. I need the truth, Louis. I didn’t come this far just to protect my feelings.”
“All right.”
September 25th, 2025
20:52
Call Log: Client Lioncourt
“Louis.”
“Hey. Lestat—are you sittin’ down?”
“Oh no, mon cœur.”
“Just—listen for a second. You might wanna brace yourself. This part’s not easy.”
“Please,” Lestat pleads lightly. “The suspense alone will finish me.”
“She arranged a meet-up. Motel booking. Set up through the messages I mentioned before. Judgin’ by the emojis attached, the intent’s pretty clear.”
“….”
“Lestat? You still there?”
“… So that’s it, then.”
“Lestat—are you all right?”
“Of course I am. Of course.” He inhales sharply. “I simply—knew it, didn’t I? I knew. And still, I held onto that ridiculous sliver of hope that perhaps—”
“Hey,” Louis cuts in, softer. “I know. I know it hurts.”
“Will it pass?” Lestat asks quietly. “Because it feels as though I’ve given everything I have. My heart, my devotion—and it’s chewed up and handed back to me without ceremony. Indifférente.”
“I know,” Louis says again, steadier this time. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”
“No—it’s fine.” Lestat exhales, reassembling himself. “You’re going to follow through. Get what you need so there’s no ambiguity. No room for denial.”
“That’s the plan.”
“When is it?”
“Tonight.”
“You come see me immediately after. I want to see the evidence myself.” Lestat’s voice firms. “I’ll text you the address. Est-ce clair?”
“Yeah,” Louis confirms. “Crystal.”
September 26th, 2025
21:29
Louis nudges the ridged wheel on his binoculars, careful, incremental, until the gap in the motel’s thin curtains comes into focus. Motel 1 sits low and tired beneath the streetlights, paint dulled by years of humidity and neglect. He’s worked places like this before. Knows the look of them. Knows what they’re for.
Even with years on the job, the sensation still hits him the same way it always does—a brief, hollow drop in his stomach as the image sharpens. Training kicks in immediately after, hands steady, breath measured, but it doesn’t erase the unease. There’s a moment—always a moment—where the shame creeps up behind the professionalism. The awareness that what he’s doing is invasive by nature, no matter how cleanly he does it. Watching through glass. Piecing together someone else’s private life from fragments they never meant to share. And Louis has learned, over time, that the feeling never fades. It sits with him the whole stakeout—an acid twist in his gut, a bitterness creeping up the back of his tongue—while he waits. While he watches. He lowers the binoculars and swaps them for his good camera, the one with the long zoom, palms damp against the worn plastic.
Through the gap in the curtains, there’s no mistaking her: Antoinette Brown. Side profile caught in the frame, jaw slack, body folded into angles that look almost painful. Her hair spills over the pillow, jaw slack, body moving with a violent rhythm. The bed jerks beneath her, cheap mattress bowing, motel sheets already shoved toward the far edge like they tried and failed to keep up.
Louis summons every last ounce of his patience, his hands steadying by sheer force of will. The trick is to stay invisible. Let the lens do the work. Clean lines. Faces when he can get them. Nothing blurred.
He exhales and tracks the frame.
The man on top of her looks ordinary enough at first glance: strong jaw, dark beard, good hair. Athletic, judging by the force with which the mattress gives beneath him. But when Louis zooms closer, the picture shifts. The man’s expression hardens into something ugly—nostrils flared, mouth pulled tight, possession stamped across his face like a claim.
Louis grimaces.
He tilts the focus ring, catching the moment the man leans down, mouth shaping something obscene. He doesn’t have to hear it to guess the script. Territorial. Claiming. Sweat slicks down the man’s temples and disappears into the sheets. The room carries sound even through the walls—the dull thunk of a cheap headboard knocking plaster, the muffled spill of voices that don’t quite become words. Outside, a bar sign hums, bleeding neon through the greasy motel curtains.
Louis takes enough shots to make the story undeniable—the act itself, the faces caught mid-ecstasy, the brief flashes of recognition between one breath and the next. A glassy-eyed cry. A wide-mouthed groan. He lets himself slip into the narrow tunnel the job requires: shutter, click, adjust, repeat. The fuzz creeps in at the edges of his thoughts, merciful in its own way. Keeps him from thinking about what comes next. About telling Lestat. About watching hope collapse in real time. Hammering home the last nail in something that had already been splintering.
He’s done this before. More times than he cares to count. The news never lands easier. The part where he has to talk payment afterward is always the worst of it—the way grief and business scrape against each other.
Still, tonight a different kind of tension rattles through him. The thought breaks loose before he can box it in: kicking the door open, the stink of sweat and mildew rushing him, the cheap carpet sucking at his shoes. He sees his fist finding the man’s jaw, once, twice—knuckles splitting, teeth flashing like loose dice. He imagines the man’s swagger folding in on itself, bravado leaking out as quickly as blood.
The image flares hot, bright, and ugly.
Detach.
Louis reminds himself of the rule he’s learned to live by: he is part of the mechanism. A cog. An operator. He is just another part of the camera’s machinery—the piece that moves, that obeys. He finishes the roll, gathers the final frames. Packs the gear with practiced hands. The neon outside seeps into the windshield as he pulls away, streets sliding past in a blur of sodium-light and shadows, headed toward his client’s address.
Deliver the news. Receive the final payment.
Deliver the news. Receive the final payment.
Deliver the news. Receive the final payment.
By the time Louis pulls up to Lestat’s townhouse he’s repeated the phrase so often it’s gone hollow. The words lose their shape, bouncing around his skull like the rubber balls he used to play jacks with as a kid, quick and erratic, never staying still long enough to catch.
He kills the engine and lets the quiet settle in around him. The street hum fades to a distant throb, cicadas ticking somewhere in the dark. Louis flips the visor down and checks his reflection out of habit more than concern. It’s been a while since he slicked his hair back, but tonight it just felt right. One curl has escaped, tacky with gel, catching the low light as it hangs over his forehead. He slips the camera strap over his neck, the familiar weight steadying, and reaches for his supply bag. Everything’s there: binoculars, spare batteries, memory cards, printouts, his burner with synced logs. If Lestat wants to see the records, the timestamps, the messages laid out clean, it's there.
Louis’ boots thud against the cobblestones as he crosses the narrow walkway, vision swallowed almost immediately by the fog clinging low to the ground. The townhouse rises out of it like something staged—tall and narrow, iron-laced balconies cutting dark lines against the night, shutters closed tight. He takes the steps carefully. The iron railing is cold and slick beneath his palm. Somewhere above him, a neighboring window stands cracked just enough to let music bleed out—soft, indistinct. Lestat's place looks exactly like he remembers: elegant in that quiet, unyielding way money affords, preserved and deliberate, like nothing here is ever allowed to decay.
He rings the bell. Then, because habit dies hard, he raps his knuckles against the door three times.
Louis squares his shoulders and waits, eyes drifting to the narrow window beside the door just in time to catch a shadow pass behind the curtain. His jaw tightens.
The door opens slowly, then all at once, like a curtain finally pulled aside, warm light spilling into the night.
Lestat stands there with a bottle of wine loose in one hand, the other tangled in the sleeve of a white satin robe that slips and pools around him as if it can’t decide whether to cling or fall away. The fabric catches the low light from inside the house, soft and luminous, trailing just behind him when he shifts.
His hair has come loose from whatever restraint he’d bothered with earlier, pale and disordered, falling around his face like a veil. His eyes—too blue, too bright even now—are glassed over, rimmed red, tears gathered and waiting. There’s something almost angelic about him in his grief, the kind that looks breathtaking when caught in the muted glow of a shadowed doorway.
“Tell me,” Lestat whispers.
Louis feels it in his chest before he hears it—the naked need beneath the softness.
“Louis,” Lestat breathes again, voice cracking. “Tell me it’s not true.”
Louis swallows. His mouth goes dry. He presses his lips together, gives the smallest shake of his head. No words. There aren’t any that wouldn’t make it worse.
He watches the tears finally spill, slow and soundless, catching at the corners of Lestat’s eyes before Lestat looks down, shoulders dipping as if something inside him has gone slack. The wine bottle lowers. His grip tightens on the robe instead. Without looking up, Lestat steps aside.
He leads Louis through the foyer, past tall, shadowed bookshelves that crowd the hall like witnesses. The house smells faintly of old paper, polish, and something sweet left open too long. The thin fabric of Lestat’s robe skims the carpet as he walks, whisper-soft, a sound Louis finds himself tracking despite better judgment.
They reach the sofa, broad and stark beneath the low lamps. Lestat drops onto it without ceremony, sprawling back as if the room itself might hold him up. He takes a long pull from the bottle, careless, then swipes at his mouth when a dark bead threatens to spill over. Louis sits beside him, careful to leave space, and sets his supply bag between them. When Lestat turns his head, the scent of wine carries—sweet and sharp at once.
Louis adjusts the camera in his hands, thumb rubbing over the familiar ridges without meaning to. This is the part he never likes. The handoff. The moment where proof stops being abstract and turns personal. He weighs his options—ease into it, soften the blow, or just tear straight through and be done with it.
His fingers twitch. He wants the grounding ritual of smoke, something bitter and burning to pull his nerves back into place. A cigarette. A spliff. Anything to take the edge off this quiet, this expectation pressing in from Lestat’s side of the couch.
“So,” Louis begins, the word rougher than he means it to be, thumb tapping the camera lens like it might give him somewhere to start. “I compiled a number of shots from—”
“What is so wrong with me?”
The question cuts clean through Louis.
He turns his head toward Lestat, caught off guard. The words have come out low and unsteady, scraped raw, like they’ve been circling for hours with nowhere to land. Lestat isn’t looking at the camera, or the bag, or anything practical at all. He’s looking at Louis.
“I’m—sorry,” Louis says carefully. “Say that again?”
“What,” Lestat breathes, and this time he reaches out, fingers brushing, then curling around Louis’ hand where it grips the camera. Tentative. “What is so wrong with me? Am I truly so unlovable? So unbearable to be near?”
Louis stiffens. The warmth of Lestat’s fingers seeps straight through him, distracting in a way he doesn’t have language for. He shakes his head, once, quick, like he can dislodge the moment. “Nah—no.” His voice comes out too fast. “That’s not—hey. You got any cigarettes?”
He pulls his hand back gently, gives himself something else to look at. “I’m always a little scrambled after a stakeout,” he adds.
Lestat blinks, the anguish flickering as he gathers himself. The intensity softens, just a notch.
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Yes, I do.” A weak smile ghosts across his mouth. “That sounds magnifique, actually. Something bitter to cut through all this sweetness.” He lifts the half-empty wine bottle in emphasis.
He rises with a flourish, crossing to the window alcove where the fog presses faintly against the glass. From there, he retrieves a carton of Marlboros and a lighter studded with rhinestones that catch the lamplight when he turns back.
"Here," he offers, open-palmed.
Louis sets the cigarette between his lips. Lestat leans in first, lighter cupped in his palm, and flicks it open, catching his own cigarette before tipping the flame toward Louis. The flame jumps, brief and hungry. Heat blooms between them. Louis draws, watches the tip flare bright, a red-orange reflection caught in Lestat’s pale eyes before the fire snaps shut again.
“Want me to crack a window?” Louis mutters around the cigarette, taking a longer drag this time. Smoke fills his lungs, hot and bitter, settling him. It feels like being rinsed clean from the inside out, his nerves easing back into something manageable.
“No—it’s fine,” Lestat dismisses, exhaling slowly. Smoke slips from his nostrils in thin, elegant streams, the air thickening almost immediately. “Why should I care? I’m already drowning in the scent of liquor. Might as well commit. A proper haze to match.”
Louis nods and takes another drag.
“To answer your question,” he says finally, voice low, measured, “I don’t think there’s a damn thing wrong with you, Lestat.”
His gaze drifts—bookshelves heavy with spines, his own boots planted firm on the rug, the window fogged with condensation. He keeps his eyes moving, like stillness might betray him.
“Truth is, infidelity don’t have standards. It don’t spare you for bein’ smart, talented, good-lookin’, generous.” He exhales smoke, slow. “It’s ruthless like that. You can do everything right and still end up sittin’ exactly where you are now.”
“Trust me,” Louis adds quietly. “I’d know.”
Lestat draws one cheek in, considering it, then taps ash into the tray on the end table with precise irritation. He takes another drink from the bottle before holding it out to Louis, arm extended, expectant.
“So it is inevitable,” he says quietly. “A sickness, then. Something incurable.” A hollow laugh escapes him. “No matter how capable I imagine myself to be, I was never going to rein it in.”
He looks at Louis, eyes too bright, voice tipping just enough toward melodrama to beg without admitting it. “Woe is me. Your words don’t soften the blow, Louis.” He nudges the bottle closer. “Now drink with me. You can’t let me disappear into it alone. You can grant me that, non?”
“Sure,” Louis says.
He tips the bottle back and takes a long pull. The wine is thick and dark, clinging to his tongue, staining his throat with something heavy and warm. He exhales once, steady.
“And you are capable,” Louis punctuates after finishing another swig.
Lestat scoffs, quick and sharp. “How so?”
“Well, you made a name for yourself. You came here with nothin’ and built somethin’ anyway. New country. New scene. You put yourself on a stage and meant it.” Louis shrugs. “That presence you got—that can’t be taught. And you did it on your own.”
The words surprise even him a little as they leave his mouth. He feels them settle somewhere deep, the truth of them ringing back at him from an angle he hadn’t expected. Pride, yes—but not just for Lestat. For himself, too. For staying. For rebuilding. For choosing, over and over, to work the only way he knew how and keep his footing in a city that didn’t always make it easy.
“Ah,” Lestat breathes, smoke drifting straight into Louis’ space. “I have done that, haven’t I?” He exhales again, slower this time. “It all feels relative. I struggle to see my own victories when the strife is so loud.” His mouth twists. “I have so many regrets, despite the professional triumphs. Personal failures. If I could relive them—” He shakes his head. “I would say everything differently.”
He reaches for the bottle again, fingers curling around the neck before taking another sip.
“Yeah,” Louis says quietly. “I know the feelin’. But livin’ in the what-ifs’ll rot you from the inside out. With time comes wisdom. Lord knows I could’ve used what I know now back when I was young and dead certain I knew better. Would’ve saved myself a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“The fragility of humanity,” Lestat murmurs solemnly. “Why must we fail in order to succeed?”
Louis glances over, catching the intensity in Lestat’s expression, the way he’s clearly turning the thought over like it’s scripture. He huffs a laugh. “That’s profound,” then pauses. “You’re drunk.”
“I am not only drunk,” Lestat counters, brightening immediately, “I am still drink-ing.” He sings the word, takes another gulp, then smacks his lips with satisfaction.
“Mm. Yeah. I can see that.” Louis shifts, settling deeper into the couch. “You thought at all about next steps? Talkin’ to her. Callin’ it off. What movin’ on might look like?”
“Nooo,” Lestat whines, swatting lightly at Louis’ shoulder. “I’ve only just survived the news. Am I meant to be rebuilding already?” He slumps back dramatically. “I am very clearly in mourning.”
Louis eyes him warily, "You’re wearin’ all white.”
“Oui. And this was one of Antoinette’s favorite things on me,” Lestat says, mouth pulling into a wounded pout. “Ça fait mal. It hurts, Louis.”
Lestat turns back toward Louis, eyes glassy again. The wine sloshes dangerously as he fumbles to set the bottle on the side table, missing once before finding it. His robe slips down his shoulder in the process, pale skin catching the lamplight—unmarked, almost luminous against the dark of the room. He leans closer without quite meaning to, cigarette smoke lingering on his breath even though the stick itself rests abandoned in the ashtray.
“I really loved her,” Lestat says softly.
Louis reaches out before he fully thinks better of it, resting a hand at Lestat’s elbow. "I know,” he assures. “I know you did. And I know it’s hard. You deserve better than that.”
“Do I?”
Lestat looks up at him, lashes clumped slightly with tears. His lips downturn, pink and too full, the sharp lines of his face exaggerated by the low light and the grief sitting heavy in him.
“You do,” Louis asserts, firmer now.
“How do you know?” Lestat asks. Not accusing. Searching. “How could you possibly know, Louis?”
“I know—” Louis starts, then stops. The words tangle. “I know you.”
The room tilts. Just a little. Louis' head feels light, his body suddenly heavy, like gravity’s been turned up a notch. Where his hand rests against Lestat’s arm, the contact feels louder than it should. He pulls back, clearing his throat. The air feels thick enough to wade through.
“You knew me,” Lestat says quietly. “Once.” His voice drops. “You left me, too.”
Louis’ breath catches before he can help it.
“Actually, Louis, you left me first.”
Louis swallows hard. Lestat’s lashes are clotted with tears, darkened and heavy as they spill down his face. His cheeks are flushed, jaw set tight like he’s holding himself together by force alone. He sniffles, breath hitching on the way in. The robe has slipped further now, baring the pale rise of his chest, the faint pink beneath the fabric where warmth gathers. It’s an unguarded sight. One Louis doesn’t want to be seeing like this.
“I—I didn’t hurt you,” Louis says, the words tumbling out rougher than he means them to. “I ended it before it—before it got messy.” He falters. “Lestat—”
He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Forgiveness, maybe. Or absolution. Or just a way to rewind this moment back several minutes. This isn’t how the night was supposed to go. Louis' thoughts feel slippery, refusing to line up the way they usually do when he needs them to.
“You gave up on us,” Lestat says quietly. “On yourself.” His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. “You always do. You care deeply, Louis—but some selfishness is necessary. It’s not a sin.”
Louis watches another tear slip free, trace a slow path down Lestat’s cheek.
Before he can stop himself, his hand lifts. He brushes his knuckles gently beneath Lestat’s eye, wiping the tear away. The skin there is soft. Warm. The moisture clings to him, undeniable.
He pulls his hand back too late.
“You aren’t still thinkin’ about that, though,” Louis says, trying to steer them somewhere safer, steadier. “This—this is about Antoinette. That’s who you’re hurt over. Right?”
“Mmhm,” Lestat murmurs. “Antoinette.” He wets his lips, the brief flash of pink drawing Louis’ eye despite himself.
Then Lestat looks at him—really looks. His gaze lingers, probing, blue deep and unsteady, like water that promises calm right up until it pulls you under. Louis feels the tug in his chest and hates how much it answers back. He tilts his head and lets himself fall, drawn forward by the gravity of Lestat’s mouth. The kiss is soft at first—timid, curious—and Louis traces it with his tongue as if taking inventory: the clean bow of the upper lip, the faint dimples bracketing his smile, the shape he’s tried to retain memory of year after year. The essence of Lestat, gathered between their mouths.
The kiss deepens, becomes a relearning. Warm breath blooms between them. Louis reaches over, strains to stub the cigarette into the ashtray without looking, nearly misses. His teeth catch Lestat’s lower lip and he feels the gentle give, the soft resistance, before he draws it back and releases it with a quiet pop. Lestat makes a small, broken sound and lifts both hands to cradle Louis’ face, fingertips mapping cheekbone, jaw, stubble—over and over, as if touch might anchor him. As if Louis might disappear if he stops. His eyes are bright, wide, pleading even when they close.
Louis answers that desperation with his mouth. They move together, tongues curling, Lestat taking and giving in equal measure, every brush of contact threaded through with need. When Lestat sucks gently at his tongue, a shiver runs down Louis’ spine, hot and immediate. He presses back in, unhurried, tasting the last trace of wine, the bitter smoke, the ache beneath it all. He still feels the wetness on Lestat’s cheeks and pauses, just enough to brush his thumb across them, sweeping beneath the lashes, gentling the touch as though he could smooth the pain away.
“Louis—Louis—Louis,” Lestat breathes against his mouth, each repetition softer, needier.
His name becomes a refrain—urgent, pleading—and Louis is pulled back in. He groans into the kiss, lets Lestat tug at his lips, press in closer, as if trying to draw Louis down into him, to fill whatever has broken open inside. Their noses knock together, awkward and uncoordinated. Louis can’t catch a full breath, but he keeps pressing their mouths together anyway, chasing the contact until the lack of air forces him to pull back with a sharp inhale.
Lestat sits there basking in it all, chest rising too quickly, color blooming up his throat and mottling his chest, flushed and undone. He leans in and brushes Louis’ cheek with a kiss, then lingers, tongue tracing lightly along the line of his jaw before finding his ear, teeth grazing.
“Suis-moi,” he murmurs, voice low and almost breaking. “Come with me.”
Entranced, Louis slips his hand into Lestat’s outstretched one. He lets his camera fall back onto the couch, the strap tangling in the cushions, and allows himself to be led. They move past the foyer, past the soft glow of the lamps and the tall windows shuttered against the night, up the winding staircase. The cold rail bites at Louis’ fingertips. Above him, Lestat’s robe flares and sways—a radiant beacon pulling him forward.
Louis barely has time to tug off his boots—the bedroom threshold still underfoot—before he’s shoved back. The mattress gives beneath him, the scent of linen and cologne lifting up as he scrambles upright against the headboard. Lestat is already there, already moving, climbing into his space and pressing kisses along his throat—urgent, messy, almost feverish. Tongue, teeth, soft bites. Louis tips his head, offering more, letting the sensation spark along his nerves like struck matches. His fingers find Lestat’s shoulders, then his waist, then back again, searching for something solid to hold. One hand slips lower—gripping instinctively—only then registering the bare heat beneath the thin robe, the easy way it parts around Lestat’s body.
“Would you...” Lestat’s words dissolve against Louis’ skin, muffled into the hollow of his neck.
Louis huffs a breath, dizzy with closeness.
“Hm? What’s that, Lestat?”
“Would you leave me now?” Lestat breathes, teeth pressing gently into Louis’ throat. “Am I still not enough for you?”
Louis slides his hands along Lestat’s sides, slow and steady, calloused palms rasping against the silk of the robe.
“I wouldn’t leave you, Lestat. How could I?” His voice is low. “Look at you.”
He draws back just enough to lift Lestat’s face, thumb resting along his jaw.
“Un homme si beau,” he murmurs. “You always were.”
Louis watches as Lestat’s pupils widen, blue swallowed almost entirely by black, like a tide coming in too fast.
“Et toi,” Lestat answers, softer now. His fingers trace Louis’ face with reverence—catching in the stray curl over his forehead, skimming brow, nose, lips—memorizing. He leans closer until they’re pressed chest to chest, no space left, inhaling as if Louis’ scent might steady him. Louis keeps a hand firm at his flank, rubbing slow circles, anchoring.
“You want me? Even like this?” Lestat whispers, mouth grazing his ear.
“Course I do. The distance was a necessary precaution to stave off the temptation—irrésistible.”
Lestat shudders at the words, a small sound escaping him as he murmurs something crude and broken in French, softened by the way it falls against Louis’ skin like petals.
“Prove it." Lestat rasps hoarsely, "Take me.”
Louis dips forward and presses his mouth to Lestat’s throat, kissing along the delicate column there—housing that wondrous voice. He works slowly, as if he could soothe it, coat it, ease the strain with tenderness alone. The robe pools around them, silk whispering over the sheets, and Louis gathers it up, kneading into the curve of Lestat’s backside, feeling the living heat beneath his hands.
“Louis…”
“Yes?” he answers, hazily, palms mapping Lestat: the soft curve of hip, the sharp edge of bone, the ridged line of spine, the firm swell of his ass. He lingers, thoughtful, rough hands gentling over vulnerable skin—then traces slow, teasing circles lower, patience holding back something far more urgent.
“Am I appealing to you?”
Unable to resist, Louis presses his index finger to the delicate ring of Lestat's rim and begins to circle.
Lestat shivers beneath the touch. Louis keeps gently circling that sensitive skin, pulling back a fraction to look at him—the halo of blond hair gone wild, lips parted on quiet sounds, eyes wide and fixed on his. Caught there.
“You gon’ be the death of me, Lestat. Always were.” His voice has gone rough, like gravel dragged across asphalt. Desire, held in check. “You’re to me what the sun is to the world—out of reach, burnin’ bright, pouring heat over everything. Stare too long, it’ll ruin you.”
“Hot,” Lestat quips, attempting a smirk that falters into a gasp as Louis’ touch presses harder, dragging lower, rubbing with purpose.
“Scorching,” Louis clarifies, steadying him with one hand to his waist.
Louis presses more firmly and pauses, surprised by how easily Lestat yields to him—pliant, prepared—his body drawing Louis in without resistance. Heat closes around his finger, pulsing, velvety soft. Lestat shifts, a breathy sound leaving him, his weight settling more deliberately across Louis’ lap, chasing the pleasure instinctively.
“And you,” Lestat sighs, voice gone dreamy, “are as handsome as ever—more so even.”
He braces his knees into the mattress, robe falling away as he rises slightly. Muscles tighten along his back and arms, shadows shifting over them in the lamplight, shoulders drawing taut—then he sinks down, taking Louis deeper with a tremor.
“More,” he murmurs against Louis’ mouth.
Louis adds a second finger, patient, steady. Lestat pulls up then eases down around it, a low sound catching in his throat as Louis works carefully, scissoring, coaxing. There’s hunger in the way Lestat moves—eager, greedy—and Louis feels it like a current. He tightens the hand at his waist, guiding, then curls his fingers just so, angling upward. The motion draws a quiet, shaken curse from Lestat as the sensation sparks through him, his head tipping back, fine hair brushing Louis’ knuckles.
“Merde, mon amour…”
Louis keeps the pressure measured, teasing the edge of pleasure without pushing too hard, letting Lestat rock into it, meet it, chase it at his own pace.
“More, Louis,” he gasps, breath coming fast. “Plus. Now.”
Lestat pushes up onto unsteady knees and turns, the robe spilling over his back and down his legs like fallen snow. With a distracted sweep of his hand, he gathers the fabric, lifting it clear as he bends forward. His spine curves, chest meeting the sheets, the quiet lamp glow sketching his body in soft gold as he offers himself without shame—without hesitation—to Louis. He glances over his shoulder, lashes lowering, smile flashing bright and heartbreakingly eager—those perfect teeth catching the light.
“Don’t make me beg.”
Louis exhales, fingers going to his shirt. He finds half the buttons already undone and finishes the rest, slow. The zipper follows with a low rasp that seems too loud in the bedroom’s hush.
“Louis,” Lestat says, voice trembling and sincere, “you say I’m the sun—but I think it’s you. I’m always caught in your pull. I only know how to orbit you.”
“Easy now,” Louis warns, leaning forward. He swipes a thumb along Lestat’s chin where a streak of spit glistens, gentle in spite of everything. “Where d’you keep the lube, baby?”
The term of endearment lands like a slap. He watches Lestat jolt, hears him repeat it under his breath—awed—before he gestures belatedly toward the nightstand.
“First drawer.”
Louis crosses to the nightstand, nudging his discarded clothes aside as he goes. The bed creaks softly beneath the shift. When he turns back, Lestat is still there—waiting, open, poised in a way that looks calm but feels anything but. Louis hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and eases them down just enough, hissing quietly at the pressure. His cock hangs heavy and aching, pulse loud in his ears. He takes the bottle of lube, slicks his palm, lets the vanilla-sweet scent rise—incongruously soft, almost domestic—and steadies himself with a slow breath.
He leans in, careful now. Brings the head of his cock forward and drags it along Lestat’s hole, unhurried, spreading the slick, watching pre beading at his tip gather and smear. The contact makes his stomach tighten. He breathes through it, keeps his pace deliberate. When he presses in, it’s gradual. The muscle yields around him in a slow, coaxed give—warm, drawing—until the head finally slips inside. Louis stills there, just for a moment, hand re-slicking himself, chest rising and falling as he lets the sensation settle.
Lestat lets out a sharp hiss, bracing on his elbows, head dipping. Louis works the motion shallowly, easing in and out, trying to take his time before giving more.
“Just—just give it to me, Louis… Louuis,” Lestat whines, fingers knotting in the sheets as he pushes back, desperate to take him deeper.
Louis watches—the way Lestat’s body parts for him, tight and glistening, the slick rim stretching around the head of his cock, then slowly sucking him in. Every inch disappears by degrees, snug and hungry, the ring fluttering as it adjusts to his size and seals around him. The sight hits Louis so hard he has to shut his eyes for a beat, breath shuddering as heat races through him.
“Alright,” Louis growls, voice rough. “Here. Take it.”
He sets both hands at Lestat’s waist and guides him, inch by steady inch, until he’s buried fully, pressing the last bit in with a low breath. He crowds close, chest to Lestat’s back, the soft heat of skin against him as he bends to lick along the nape of Lestat’s neck, hips rolling in slow, deep circles.
Lestat’s sounds come out muffled against the sheets—small, broken noises that stutter with every slow drive of Louis’ hips. Louis pulls almost all the way out, then sinks back in, watching Lestat’s forehead bump the mattress as he tries to swallow his own voice.
“Nah,” Louis murmurs, rough. “Nope. I’m not havin’ that, baby. Sing for me.”
He threads his fingers into Lestat’s hair and draws his head back, arching him open, his spine bowing until the back of his skull rests against Louis’ chest. Louis keeps him there, braced and upright, even as he moves—muscles working, core tight, holding them both steady while he pushes deep again and again.
The rhythm builds. Skin meets skin with quickening heat. Lestat’s voice breaks loose at last—French spilling out in breathless fragments, pitched high and then dropping low, wobbling between near-cries and guttural, desperate groans.
Louis feels it—the way those sounds are for him. Appreciation. Want. Recognition. It rushes through him like a warm tide. He keeps Lestat lifted against him, one arm anchoring, the other sliding forward to pinch and tease at his nipples—soft at first, then a little sharper—until Lestat puffs his chest forward to meet the touch. Louis shifts his hips slightly, angling right, and hears the small, breathless gasp that follows, as if he’s punched the air right out of him. He reaches lower, wrapping his hand around Lestat’s cock—slick with pre, warm and hot—feeling it twitch in his palm. He finds a rhythm, working his fist in time with the slow drag of his hips.
He glances down, tilting his head, catching Lestat’s wide eyes—mouth open, lips trembling like the words won’t come. The sounds in the room layer together: the soft squelch of lube, the wet percussion of their bodies, the faint hum of night pressing at the shutters like a distant audience.
“Louis, tu te sens tellement bien. So good… so good… bien. Baby—”
“That’s right, baby,” Louis murmurs, rough and steady. “I feel good, don’t I? Long as you’re feelin’ good. You’re a star. Perfect.”
Lestat repeats the word baby—softer each time—his body going slack in Louis’ hold before his head tips back to rest at Louis’ neck. Louis feels the shudder travel through him just before he spills across Louis’ fist, hot and thick. Louis keeps moving, shallower now, careful, working him through it, coaxing the last tremors out while Lestat lets out small, broken whimpers that fade against the quiet.
Louis exhales and guides Lestat down with care, easing him onto his belly, then rolling him gently onto his back. The robe smears with streaks of come as he moves—careless, expensive silk marked with debauchery. Lestat blinks up at him through heavy lids, floating.
“Don’t dirty my robe, you brute.”
Louis huffs a quiet laugh. “Sorry ’bout that.” He brings his hand to his mouth, tongue sweeping along his knuckles. The taste is sharp, musky, electric—and the way Lestat watches him makes it feel like communion rather than indulgence.
“You’re not finished, are you?” Lestat murmurs, flicking weakly at Louis’ hip. “Ten years is a long time. You must deliver.”
“Just lookin’ out for you,” Louis says, voice rough around the edges. “Been holdin’ back. Don’t think you could handle me unrestrained.”
Lestat opens his mouth to fire back—something bright, barbed, affectionate—but Louis leans down and catches him in a wet kiss, tongues curling together so Lestat can taste himself on Louis’ lips. Louis’ hands travel, sliding down Lestat’s thighs. He coaxes them wider, the robe falling in soft folds near his back. He bends Lestat’s legs at the knee, guiding them carefully toward his chest, pressing soft kisses to his mouth as he goes. He nudges forward, lube-slick and twitching, his cock dragging along the smooth cleft of Lestat’s ass, rubbing lazily, savoring the touch. The sensation draws a quiet shiver from both of them.
“You wanna feel me deep? Wanna be one with me?”
“Yes,” Lestat breathes, urgent. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Louis hooks his arms beneath Lestat’s thighs and lifts, folding him open, pinning him there with an ease that makes Lestat gasp. He angles his hips and pushes back in, slow at first, feeling the way Lestat draws him in again—tighter now, as if his body refuses to let him go. It’s overwhelming: heat, pressure, the slick pull around him, like he’s being gripped and claimed in turn.
Lestat’s cock lies curved over his belly, still flushed, bouncing with each push. He keeps murmuring yes, yes, yes, while Louis settles deeper, testing the give of the mattress as he drives further than he thought he could. Every thrust lets him feel the terrain inside—the subtle ridges, the way Lestat flutters around him—and Louis breathes him in, breath mixing with breath, watching those blue eyes glaze and still somehow cling to his. He holds Lestat there, legs pressed high against his chest, and lets himself revel in it—in the closeness, the tightness, the way it feels like he’s buried to the hilt in something meant to take him—and keeps moving, giving Lestat everything he can.
“Christ, baby,” Louis groans. “Feels so good bein’ inside you.”
He works to keep his pace steady, even though every part of him wants to roll deeper, to chase the sound of Lestat’s voice as it rises and spills into the room.
“So deep,” Lestat gasps. “I feel you in my chest, in my lungs.”
“Yeah?” Louis murmurs, bending closer, teeth grazing along Lestat’s jaw. “She ever make you feel like this?”
He bites, not cruelly—just enough to mark—red crescents blooming beneath his mouth.
“No,” Lestat breathes, shaking his head. “Never. No one makes me feel like you do. No one.”
“Fuck,” Louis mutters, driving his hips harder, a rougher edge creeping in as he pushes Lestat deeper into the mattress. Lestat’s head bounces with the motion; when they try to kiss through the chaos, their teeth knock together, clumsy and hungry.
Louis pulls back just enough, unable to keep from nipping when he stays too close, and leans in instead—eyes level with Lestat’s. He holds that gaze. Watches the way Lestat tightens around him, pupils blown wide, darkness swallowing the cerulean like night swallowing the sky.
“Ah—there,” Lestat pleads, breath breaking. “Love when you look at me.”
Louis doesn’t look away. He shifts, just a hair, letting his tip find that sweet, precise place inside, feeling the flutter against him. The world blurs at the edges; only Lestat’s eyes remain in focus. He catches a flicker of himself in them—flared nostrils, sweat-dark curls, a shadowed intensity he hardly recognizes. A low moan tears out of him when something brushes lower—a curious pressure at his backside. Lestat’s hands, which had been roaming his chest and shoulders, glide around his waist, thumbs spreading, one finger rubbing slow circles at Louis' puckered rim.
Louis barks a short, dark laugh, hips still rolling. “Mm. You—you're nasty, Les.”
Lestat only smiles—that soft, wicked curve—and traces his tongue along Louis’ mouth before sinking his fingertip into that tight, waiting place he’d been worrying open. Louis’ hips falter, caught between driving deeper into Lestat and rocking back onto that teasing pressure. His breath saws out of him.
“Gon’ make me—fuck—come like this,” he pants. “Inside you. Dangerous.”
“Want it,” Lestat whispers, eyes shining. There’s a plea there—raw, aching—and Louis can’t look away. Tears rim Lestat’s lashes, spilling as Louis quickens his pace. Their cheeks slide together, damp with sweat and salt; Lestat’s fingers work deeper, coaxing, insistent.
“Louis—Louis.”
“Lestat.”
The pressure builds fast—a low burn climbing Louis' gut, his cock throbbing deep inside, dizziness sweeping through him. His body hums with heat, sweat dripping onto Lestat’s skin as their bodies meet, relentless.
“You gon’ take it all, baby?” Louis murmurs, voice trembling, vision sparking at the edges. “Gonna take it for me?”
He licks at the tears tracking down Lestat’s cheek, half soothing, half undone, trying to keep the rhythm steady, to give comfort and take it in the same breath.
“Give it to me, beau,” Lestat begs. “Mine to take. Always.”
Louis groans, every nerve prickling, focus narrowing to the warm hold around him.
“Yeah,” he manages, rough, throat thick. “Here it comes—take it for me. So good for me, baby.”
Louis drives in deep and feels the sudden pulse—release flooding through him, hot and insistent—and he can’t bring himself to pull away. Instead he grinds closer, chasing the tight clutch around him, breath breaking as the slick warmth shifts and spreads. Lestat’s mouth falls open, eyes squeezing shut, dimples carving deep with the strain as he shudders and comes again—streaks spilling across his chest and sliding down the plane of his stomach. Louis guides his legs down gently, opening them to either side, and keeps moving—slow, careful thrusts to carry Lestat through the aftershocks. His own sensitivity makes him groan, but he doesn’t stop. He peppers soft kisses over Lestat’s damp cheeks, over his eyelids, until blue eyes blink open again, red-rimmed and shining.
Exhausted, Louis sinks forward and collapses against him, still joined, his body easing toward softness, breath ragged against Lestat’s neck. Arms wind around him—tight, seizing—and a whisper finds his ear.
“Stay.”
“Course,” Louis answers, without hesitation. He can’t move anyway—can’t think past the heat of the room, the hum beyond the shutters, and the solid, aching presence of Lestat beneath him, holding on like Louis is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
Louis’ breathing eases, matching the slow lift and fall beneath his cheek. Lestat smells sweet and smoky; heat and sweat on warm skin, cinnamon and clove ghosting close—intoxicating. When Louis finally, carefully slips free, he finds Lestat’s breaths have already settled into an even rhythm, sleep overtaking him without ceremony. Louis gently pries loose the hands still clutching at his shoulders and studies him in the lamplight. Color blooms along his throat and chest where Louis’ mouth had been; his lips are plush, faintly swollen. There’s a softness to Lestat's face now—peaceful, almost luminous—a small curve at his mouth.
Louis is about to slide down beside him, to drape himself against his back, when a low buzz rattles the wood of the nightstand.
He turns, brow furrowing.
The bottle of lube sits there with the cap still open, forgotten, and beside it, Lestat’s phone lies face down. Louis glances between the faintly visible glow and the man sleeping beside him, a faint snore whispering out with each breath.
Slowly, he reaches over, turns the phone, brings it closer.
His mouth parts.
A new notification lights the screen—Antoinette, reacting to a previous outgoing message. A single thumbs-up to Lestat’s last text:
Lestat de Lioncourt | 1 hour ago
Au revoir! He’s here xo
Louis blinks, brain slow to catch up.
His suspicion sharpens as he brings the phone closer to Lestat’s serene face. The screen unlocks with a soft click, brightening the room in a way that feels wrong, intrusive. He scrolls, thumbs moving on instinct, and the thread jumps to life.
A cascade of vibrations hits all at once, sharp and insistent. Antoinette’s incoming texts stack, the floor giving way beneath him.
He swallows and reads.
Antoinette Brown | Now
Les yr fucking unhinged... but also real asf
You’d better call me ASAP w the deets like if mister dreamboat is still “hung like a horse” and “the sexiest man to have ever walked this earth”
And don't you dare come see me until you can't walk straight
Manifesting that our plan is an orgasmic success xo