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Louis is bleeding to (un)death by his own fangs.
He usually manages to control his vampire instincts and those sharp little teeth so popular in 21st-century pop culture. They usually come down only for biological urges, or when he’s so captivated by something he can’t control his excitement.
Well, this time the cause of this impatience is the latter. The fangs had sunk in with a sharp thud! four times now, and each time they had torn the inside of his lips, causing blood to gush out. Louis tilts his head back and presses a hand over his mouth, unable to stop staring like an idiot at the masterpiece before him. His laptop lies forgotten on a low table.
Lestat’s arms are completely bare, his muscles on full display. The bastard is wearing a tight tank top and his hair is down, shamelessly showing off his neck and shapely shoulders as he signs CDs for sale.
Louis can’t stop thinking about how those powerful arms held him tight some eighty years ago in New Orleans. About how, even now—though their relationship is still finding its footing—the feelings he experiences when they make love are exactly the same.
His mind wanders to other, unspeakable scenarios: Lestat caressing his cheek with those pianist’s fingers or clasping them around his neck; being pressed flat against the wall, the bed, or the floor under the weight of his maker. Or his maker beneath him, cheeks flushed as he begs him to…
Snap out of it, Louis! he screams at himself internally. Pull yourself together! Don’t be a simp! You’re an immortal, not a fifteen-year-old.
But Lestat looks up and flashes a smile, and Louis falls right back into his fantasies.
The way he holds the pen, the way his fingers bend, the way his forearm bulges, the veins tracing beneath the skin… God, he is madly in love with masculine forms—Lestat’s in particular!
“Are you running low on sugar? Did today’s delivery come from someone with anemia?” Lestat jokes, raising his eyebrows. He’s looking at him again; perhaps he smells the scent of blood. “You’ve been acting strange ever since you got up.”
Louis runs a hand through his hair, feigning nonchalance. “Nah, I’m fine. Maybe I just need to drink a little more.” From you. I need to sink my fangs into your neck and drain you dry. I need to hear you moan beneath my grip, to feel a part of you flowing through my veins.
Better change the subject.
“How many more do you have to sign?” Louis asks, nodding toward the stack of unsigned albums.
Lestat continues to smile at him strangely, not even glancing at the pile. “About a hundred and sixty. They’re a limited edition.”
“Doesn’t your hand hurt from all that writing?” Good heavens, Louis could slap himself. Why on earth is he asking a two hundred-year-old immortal if his tendons ache? He already knows the answer.
Lestat bursts out laughing, covering his mouth with one hand when he can't contain himself. “You’ve been drinking anemic or drugged blood, I’m sure now! What kind of question is that?” As he sets the marker down on the table, a particularly well-defined muscle twitches, and Louis feels like he's losing his mind.
Louis, pull yourself together. Think with your brain, not your dick. You can control yourself, like the gentleman you are.
But Lestat is languidly rubbing a finger across his own lips, seemingly deep in thought. Actually, he’s trying to elicit a reaction from Louis, who feels like a caged animal.
“Already tired of signing autographs for your fans, you poor little boy?” Louis asks.
“No, I’m just taking a few minutes to stare at you. Can’t I?”
“No. Get back to work.” This answer seems to please Lestat, who now has a smirk plastered across his face.
“Yes, boss.”
“What did you call me?”
“Boss. Boss. Boss! Aren’t you my boss?”
It’s a good thing Louis hasn't fed well; otherwise, his cheeks would be so dark they’d look like cherries. “What are you babbling about?”
Lestat shakes his head, doing his best to look disappointed. “It’s not a good thing to be a liar, Louis, especially within these walls.”
“We’re in the office.”
“We’re in my home office, where you’ve been a welcome guest for a month. It’s the same thing, don’t change the subject.”
“I don’t understand what you want.”
“All right, should I call Christine and put her on speakerphone, chéri?” Lestat insists, his tone mellifluous. “I’d like to hear you say that to her.”
Louis plucks a loose thread from the sofa, remembering how he’d once teased Armand for doing the exact same thing. Now, he finally understands the impulse.
“You tell me,” Louis mutters.
Lestat stands up and leans his back against the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest. “After I signed a contract with seven clubs that are paying an astronomical sum for my performances, my dearest Christine investigated the properties and discovered some very interesting things.”
“Like what?”
“That the owner is a certain Thomas Pitt, who according to the photo on his birth certificate happens to be your twin. Either you have a third brother who somehow survived nearly two centuries of history, or it’s you.”
Christine is a bloodhound, for heaven’s sake.
“Maybe he’s my doppelgänger. They say there are seven of us in the world.”
Lestat grimaces with amusement, then approaches him with exasperating slowness. “Incredible. So this Thomas Pitt isn’t just a look-alike, he’s a clone. Be honest, Louis: are the clubs yours?”
“Keep talking nonsense. What do you want me to say?”
His maker positions himself behind the sofa and places his hands on Louis’s shoulders for a quick massage, squeezing the muscles near his shoulder blades firmly to coax him into speaking. “All seven are registered under the Immortal Properties brand, owned by a certain Thomas Pitt who looks exactly like you. Do you take me for a fool, Louis, insisting these are all coincidences?”
In a mix of restrained horniness and the inability to prove otherwise, Louis lets out a dramatic sigh and melts under Lestat’s touch. “I admit it. The clubs are mine, and I signed you to a contract. Happy?”
“Monsieur the Capitalist, I’m proud of your business acumen! Why didn't I know any of this?”
“I would have told you.”
“Mmh, I’ll pretend to believe you. Or do you just like knowing that you own me?”
Louis tilts his head back to look him in the eyes, his pupils blown wide. “I don’t own anyone.”
Lestat playfully taps Louis’s nose with a fingernail. “By contract, you have exclusive rights to the release of new albums and one live show a week when I’m not on tour. What does that mean to you, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have invested in my band if you didn’t want any ties to me. You’re jealous because you can’t follow me to every concert across the continents, aren’t you?”
Louis gives Lestat's hand a light slap, embarrassed. He knew he’d be found out sooner or later, but… he hadn’t thought the repercussions through. “You can go wherever you want, for as long as you want. I’m not your master.”
As soon as Lestat kneels before him, Louis knows he won’t be able to hold back for long.
“Woof.” Lestat rests his cheek on Louis’s lap and looks him straight in the eyes, one hand stroking Louis's knee. “You’d like to cancel all my concerts and have me by your side all the time, I know. You’re very possessive, Louis du Lac. Woof.”
“Stop acting like a dog. It’s not funny.”
“You gave me a gold bracelet identical to yours—one that can only be opened by you, since you have the key. What’s the next step, mon cher? To have me all to yourself every hour of our immortal lives?”
Lestat plants a kiss on his jeans, dangerously close to his inner thigh. Louis’s body goes up in flames.
“I would never deprive you of what makes you happy, Lestat.” I would lock you away in my apartment in Dubai. I would place you on a pedestal to admire you like the most beautiful of statues; I would shower you with my love every second until you were sick of it. I would hide you from the eyes of the world for eternity, just so I would never have to be separated from you.
Lestat keeps on leaving light kisses like a trail of breadcrumbs all the way down to Louis's stomach, where he plants a firmer kiss. “Oh, Louis. How generous of you. The next time I perform at one of your clubs, have the concert interrupted or have me summoned to your private room at the end of the night. That way, everyone will know who I belong to.”
“That wouldn’t go over well with the newspapers and fans.”
“Since when do you care what the tabloids say about me? If they think I’m selling my body for the chance to perform in your clubs, let them. I only care about your opinion.”
“I don’t understand this nasty habit of yours, comparing yourself to a prostitute.”
“You can lecture me as long as you like later. Not now, you’re distracting me,” retorts Lestat, who is now perched on Louis’s lap. He fiddles with the buttons on Louis's shirt, huffing like a cat when he can’t get them open on the first try. “Damn you and your clothes.”
“Seriously, Lestat. You have to understand it’s not right to talk about yourself in this…” Louis doesn’t have time to finish his thought; his maker lunges at his lips and slips his tongue into his mouth, eager to merge their bodies into a single entity.. He must have caught a few drops of Louis’s blood oozing from the already-healed wound, because he lets out a moan and deepens the kiss.
Louis seizes the moment and places his hands on the vampire’s hips, responding enthusiastically to his attentions. When things start to heat up, he rips off the tank top responsible for his painful distraction, smiling as Lestat moans shamelessly.
“I haven’t even touched you, and you’re already reacting like this? You’re shameless.”
“What did that tank top ever do to you, for you to literally rip it in half?” Lestat retorts, panting. He helps Louis unbutton his pants, then surrenders to his lover’s touch as it’s his turn to shed his clothes. He lies down on the couch and lets Louis spread his legs and settle between his thighs—a blank canvas on which to leave kisses and bites. Louis pounces on every inch of Lestat’s skin, showering him with attention and passion.
“You look like a lion that hasn’t eaten in a week. Am I the one without shame?”
“Watch out, I’m about to wear you out so thoroughly that you won’t be able to speak for at least half an hour afterward.”
“Hmm, really? Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Are you challenging me?” Challenge accepted. He grabs handfuls of Lestat’s hair and wraps them around his fingers, pulling hard.
“Louis!”
“You can fix your hair later. Now, stand up.” Lestat obeys immediately, letting himself be led to the enormous rug at the center of the room. Louis makes him sit there and positions himself behind him. He gives him one, two, three slaps on his buttocks and then leaves a bite mark on his right cheek, deep enough for him to feel the sting. Lestat writhes, seeming to have forgotten that he doesn’t need to breathe; he struggles to draw air into his atrophied lungs.
“Is the challenge tough enough for your liking?”
“You can… you can do better.”
Two more blows to his buttocks, much harder this time. “Are you giving up?”
“No.”
Louis knows that Lestat’s skin is sensitive and must be burning like fire, yet the brat would never admit it.
“All right, then I hope you don’t mind changing positions. I want to see your face.” Louis grabs Lestat by the hips and spins him around with supernatural speed—a feat impossible for a human without shattering their knees. Lestat’s face is flushed and his eyes are glazed over as if he has a fever; beads of blood begin to trickle down his temples. He is divine.
He runs his tongue over his lips and carefully brushes Lestat’s hair back over his left shoulder, then tightens his grip on it again to tilt his head back and brings his mouth close to the skin, white as milk, inhaling the sweet scent it gives off. He chooses the junction between neck and shoulder to launch his attack, then snaps his fangs out and clenches his jaw.
Lestat screams with pleasure, writhing in anticipation of a deeper bite. And who is Louis to deny him that? He sucks greedily, feeling his head grow light as if he were getting drunk on wine or vodka. When he can no longer hold back, he slides his free hand down his maker’s body and wraps it around the appendage craving attention. At that point, Lestat’s eyes roll back until only the whites are visible.
Balls deep inside him, Louis stops thrusting to take in the sight of Lestat beneath him, the very picture of lust personified.
“Do you know what I was thinking?” he asks, caressing Lestat’s cheek.
“Huh?” is Lestat’s only response, his eyes dreamy and unfocused. He’s only now realizing that Louis is still inside him, perfectly still. Wow, I’m really scrambling his brains.
“I said: do you know what I was thinking?”
“What, mon cher?”
“That you’re always beautiful, but you’re even more so without the makeup and extravagant clothes.” Lestat doesn’t seem to have fully understood; he lifts his head slightly and pulls Louis closer.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what you think. You don’t need to hide behind layers of glitter, performance, and nonchalance—this is the best version of you, in a simple tank top.”
Hearing a sentence spoken with such conviction seems to have a more profound effect on Lestat than all the times Louis has fed from his femoral artery. His eyes widen, staring back dumbfounded, his lower lip trembling as if he were on the verge of tears.
How can his mood change so quickly?
“Say it again.”
Louis plants a kiss on him. He is enchanted by the sight of those iridescent eyes, where amethyst flecks now mingle with blue. He runs his fingers through Lestat’s sweat-dampened hair, watching how the artificial light makes it look even more golden, like threads of gold in a tapestry of inestimable worth, as fine as blades of grass.
Eyes blue as the summer sky, hair golden like dawn, he thinks, but stops himself just in time, remembering that Lestat wouldn’t take that particular compliment well for obvious reasons.
“You’re beautiful. Even more so than when you’re dressed up as a rock star.” Louis kisses him on the forehead, on the tip of his nose, and again on his mouth as he continues to stroke his hair. He starts moving again, finding a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Lestat sighs and surrenders to the fleeting touch of Louis’s lips, his eyelids heavy. “Do with me as you will, cher. I am yours, for eternity.”
His.
“Say it again,” Louis commands, echoing the very words Lestat had spoken moments before.
“I’m yours, Louis.”
He presses a kiss to Lestat's chest, and then Lestat breaks. He doesn’t answer; he lets out a sob and a single, crimson tear.
“Les, what…?”
“In your book, I’m a fictional character like the others, so my name falls under your intellectual property. Isn’t that right?” Lestat is a raging river now, tears streaming copiously down his cheeks as he gasps with excitement at the touch of his beloved.
Exactly.”
“So I’m yours in the truest sense of the word, in every way. Admit it, that’s why you want me in your clubs, too.”
To be honest, Louis hadn’t been thinking about the book. It was undeniable, however, that the decision to sign Lestat had been a calculated one.
He runs his palms along Lestat’s thighs, pushing deeper to watch him lose control. Yes, he is just as jealous and possessive as Lestat. It is time to admit it.
“I don’t know how far I’d go to keep you with me. You’ve made me admit it, you damn bastard.”
Lestat grabs his wrist and forces Louis’s hand onto his own neck, urging him to tighten his grip.
“Put a collar on me, tighten it until I can’t breathe. Put me in iron chains to make me as helpless as a human, so you can force me to stay wherever you want. I’m yours, Louis. Yours.”
“And where would you like to be kept? Tied to the bed, in a cellar, or sitting on my lap?”
“Wherever you wish, chéri. I cannot exist in a world where you are not—so long as you are with me.”
God, we're psychopaths, Louis thinks, picking up the pace of his thrusts. You dropped me from two kilometers up the sky; I literally killed you. And now here we are, saying such horrible things to each other, exhilarated by the mere thought of destroying one another.
“You're so romantic, love.”
As the psycho he is, Louis uses one of his claws as a blade and makes a shallow cut on Lestat’s neck in the exact same spot where he plunged the knife a century ago, just enough to lick away the drops of blood that seep out. He kisses the small wound that is already closing; Lestat lets out a scream of pleasure so loud it can probably be heard all across Canada. He writhes beneath Louis’s grip; Lestat squeezes his wrist again and brings it to his mouth to drink.
As his fangs sink into the flesh, Louis moans and loses all control, showering Lestat’s flushed, sensitive body with bites and kisses. They both come at the same moment, covered in reddish fluid.
They’re floating in paradise.
It’s almost dawn. The CDs to be signed lie forgotten on the table, and the two of them are sprawled out on the carpet, completely naked and sticky. Just as Louis promised, Lestat is struggling to speak.
“You’re not Louis du Lac, you’re a sex god. A man-eater,” he observes in a whisper. He exhales dramatically, making Louis burst out laughing.
“Have I won the challenge?”
“Don’t make me admit it, chéri.” He clings to him like a koala and gently strokes the back of his neck, a look of dazed satisfaction etched on his face. “How the the tables have turned, if you think about how I used to take care of you. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”
How could Louis forget the attention his maker showered him with, how he could read him like an open book and satisfy him as no one else ever could? Back then, he was even ashamed to inhabit his own body, let alone accept himself as he was. Lestat, however, always found a way in to free him from the isolation he had imposed on himself; he loved him as if he were the most important and worthy person in the world.
“Never. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the moments I’ve spent with you.” Their noses rub together, and Louis feels like the luckiest person in the entire universe. Lestat kisses him on the temple, not moving an inch.
“But weren’t you supposed to sign all those records by tomorrow?”
“Fuck the records. They can’t stop me from getting fucked by my husband.”
“We haven’t discussed the technicalities of our relationship yet. Let’s not put labels on it.” Louis gives Lestat a light tap on the forehead, pretending to be annoyed.
The vampire smirks, rubbing salt in the wound. “You’re still my husband, technically we got married in a church. Catholics can only get divorced by asking the Roman Rota to annul the marriage; you know that better than I do.”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
“You shut me up.”
Louis grants his wish with a less-than-chaste kiss. What a contrast to the violent words spoken just moments before. “Maybe you need a gag, paired with a collar.”
“Stop it, mon cher. I can’t get aroused a second time; you’ve worn me out.”
They continue their lovemaking for a few more minutes, then Lestat sits up and runs a hand over the soft fabric of the carpet, miraculously free of stains. “You’ll be at the concert next week, right?”
Louis remains lying down, content to lazily brush his maker’s thigh with the tips of his claws. “Online sales aren’t open yet.”
“Putain, you’re a multi-billionaire capitalist and you’re talking about general sales? Text Christine and tell her to give you a pass!”
“No. It won’t be that hard to buy a ticket.”
“You were inside me just five minutes ago, and now you’re too ashamed to ask for a pass? A pass I always give you, by the way? Oh, wait! Are you ashamed because Christine uncovered that shady club deal?”
“Me, ashamed? I’m constantly moving between legality and illegality; you think such a trifle would stop me?”
“Louis, I know you too well. You’re a hoot.” Lestat sprawls over him and rests his chin on his chest to look at him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re so pure, so moral. But just a moment ago, you were a wild beast ready to devour me on this wonderful carpet. Also, you practically bought me along with the clubs just so you wouldn't have to part from me. Now, how about we freshen up a bit before going to sleep?”
“All right, but I have to take care of your hair myself. I’ve messed it up too much; it’s completely lost its shape. I want to comb it out for you.”
“Hmm, as you wish.”
Before standing up, Louis wraps his arms around Lestat’s waist from behind and pulls him close, resting his ear against his back and focusing on the feel of his muscles contracting.
He loves everything about him—it drives him crazy. He wants nothing but him, for eternity.
Everything is enough, as long as Lestat is there.