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He's flat on his back on their bed, drowning in pleasure. Lestat's mouth envelops him, sinfully wet because he practically drools every time he even thinks about getting it on Louis. Sucking at him like a starving man, like the blood does nothing and Louis is the only thing he can live off, more than anybody has wanted him before in his life. The brutal animal way Lestat so obviously craves him is getting him just as good as the tongue massaging the underside of his cock, the silken clutch of Lestat's throat around the head as he swallows him down.
This set of sheets are already a lost cause from yesterday, so Louis feels no further guilt about digging his talons in and tearing them further. He could be grabbing at Lestat's hair instead – bastard would adore it, he's sure – but he needs to anchor himself to something solid, and Lestat is never that. So he clutches his handfuls of torn silk as he bucks upwards into Lestat's muffled, effusive encouragement, legs somehow falling even wider. Where he's digging his own claws into the meat of Louis's thighs, Lestat's grip tightens in approval, delighted with any further space he can make for himself in Louis's body. Like those moments when he traces the bones of Louis's ribcage and, even with their minds closed to each other, Louis can see the wish to crack it open, hollow it out, fit himself within.
One of Lestat's hands leaves its greedy clutch on his thigh, and he only gets a moment to mark it before he feels it, brushing gently past his balls, one knuckle petting over his taint. Then it's between his cheeks, and the broad, warm pad of Lestat's thumb is pressed up against his asshole.
Louis freezes. Every one of his muscles locks up as the bottom drops straight out of his stomach, head rushing hot and carbonated. The only thing he can feel is that thumb, that pressure, resting against maybe the only part of his body Lestat has never touched, kissed, lovingly violated.
Because they haven't. That. Yet. And this whole time, Louis has been trying to brace himself for it, for the moment Lestat's strange, rare restraint would inevitably be discarded and Louis would be asked to give up this last thing.
Don't worry, you can be on top. He'd taken it as halfway a taunt, on that first night; look how I'm indulging your silly little sensibilities. For now. And yet, Lestat had continued to indulge them, in this one respect and no other. Even the times he'd played the hunter once more, pushed and grabbed and pinned, rutted up against Louis's restrained body. Time after time when Louis had been certain he was about to get his legs spread, and it'd never come.
Once they'd moved from only ever their hands and mouths, it had been Lestat who had drawn Louis's fingers between his lips to wet them, bitten his claws down with gentle force before guiding them to the hidden place behind his balls, encouraging him inside. Who'd panted and moaned in his arms, spread his legs without a moment's shame and pulled Louis between them.
It had been a revelation to fuck Lestat that first time, and not because he never had; there had been times with Lily, when he'd felt a sufficient need to prove himself. No, it was the way Lestat wanted it, begged for it when Louis hesitated, participated in his own degradation with such passionate fervour. The sounds he'd made, when Louis had really put his back into it. Like a man dying from ecstasy.
Lestat likes pain, the way Lestat seems to like every strong sensation, but for all he looked like it was killing him, it had never seemed to hurt him at all. But then, a lot of things are easy for Lestat. Most of them aren't even imaginable for Louis.
"Louis. Be with me."
Lestat's voice has gone so soft, but he hears it just fine, even above his heart's caged-beast pounding. He's pulled his mouth off Louis's cock, wilted with his sudden terror, but he hasn't moved either hand. The grip on his leg now feels more like a restraint than anything, and if Louis could manage to move at all, it's likely to become one. Lestat, apparently, is done waiting.
There's a moment where he imagines not speaking. Just hanging there, still and silent, letting Lestat do as he will. But Lestat isn't a john and he didn't turn Louis for a whore; he's never once let him get away with something like that. If I wanted a body, he'd said once, when Louis couldn't help but go passive one night, unable to own up to what they were doing, to wanting it, I'd go out and find a body. I want you, Louis. There will be no escape into his head. So he makes himself speak, the words coming from very far away. "I can't."
"You could," Lestat disagrees, and Louis finds himself once again disarmed. There's none of that easy, casual dismissal that Lestat likes to bring to bear when Louis's pedestrian moral or mortal concerns interfere with him getting something he wants. He sounds gentle. Kind even, which, Louis can count on one hand the number of times he's thought to apply that adjective to this man. "I can show you how."
"I can't." Louis shakes his head and can't stop shaking it for a long moment, until his jaw feels rattled loose. "I don't..."
"Don't or can't?" Lestat asks, and Louis doesn't have the words to answer him. They sink into silence, Lestat holding the ground he's taken, Louis failing to either muster a defence or surrender.
"I don't know that I've seen you so afraid in bed before," Lestat muses into the stillness. "Not even the first time. What is it, mon cœur, that frightens you so? Do you think you'd lose something, sweet man? That I'd be taking from you? It's nothing of the sort." Those eyes, blue like nothing in nature, vivid and glinting and fixed on him and him alone. "When you're moving in me, I feel whole, Louis, as I haven't in so long. Entirely whole and adored."
"That's you, though," Louis argues, not sure what point he's even trying to make. That Lestat is less of a man than him? Neither of them believe that. Perhaps that Lestat seems, has always seemed, so completely outside all the strictures of the world that Louis moves through. What could touch him? He can't ever have felt the corrosive liquid now trickling through Louis's guts, the horror of his own flesh, his own self.
Lestat smiles at that, oddly distant for a moment. "You know, I was frightened, too. The first time a lover took me. I never admitted it, of course," a little smile, the closest Lestat ever gets to bashful, "not until this moment. But then, oh, it was such a shock. How good it felt. How close we became, in that bed. The ease with which my body opened, the pleasure I found in it." He smooths a palm up Louis's belly, thumb brushing the short trail of hair there. "It is always so sweet, and with a love? Transcendent. Surpassingly intimate. I want that for you, chéri." A kiss to his thigh, gentle strokes of his fingertips across twitching skin. "Would I ever ask for a thing that hurt you? You can't think I want anything but for you to feel good, as good as you possibly can."
"And you wanting to get your dick wet ain't factoring in at all," Louis mutters, his lips twisting into a sneer. "Right."
Lestat raises a shoulder in an easy shrug. "Well, I can't pretend I'm not being a little selfish, but can you blame me?" He turns his head a little to lean it on Louis's thigh – still spread for him, even now – hair brushing like silk against his skin. "The idea of being in you, where nobody else has gone, of feeling you all around me, warm and open, seeing you fall apart on my cock..." His tongue tip slips out to wet his lower lip, just for an instant. "Of course it appeals. How could it not?"
The words fall like cinders onto Louis's skin, and for the first time since Lestat's questing finger killed his erection, his cock twitches. With it this close to his face, of course Lestat notices, and his long, slow inhale thrills Louis in the pit of his stomach. The perils of going to bed with a man with senses just as acute as his own and a seemingly endless obsession with every twitch of Louis's muscles – he's never once gotten something past Lestat in bed. And, once identified, Lestat has never once let something lie.
Guts clenching, Louis turns his head to the side, looking out of the window onto the night-time street. The whole world outside, and it feels so far away. He can hear, distantly, all the folks passing, cars and carriages and midnight wanderers, going to and fro without any knowledge of the monster in bed above them trying to still the quiver in his chest as another monster presses his suit.
"Louis," Lestat murmurs again. "You turn your face from me, as though you're hiding something. As though I haven't seen to the heart of you, since our first meeting." So gentle, that voice, even as the words flay him. Louis's vision is blurred, hazed by a film of red. He blinks, and more wells up. "You want me, in you. You wanted it our first night together, I remember, even if you didn't understand it yourself - the way you pressed back against me, like I was a furnace in the winter. And you want it now."
Blood on the pillow, by his head, little spots. They're really going to have to trash these sheets now.
"It wounds me, so deeply. To once again see you denying yourself the beauty, the pleasure you were made for. To know that you want without having, that you go hungry even now, even in our bed, in my arms. You should never be hungry, Louis, never again." The weight of his body shifts over him, and then that big hand is cupping his jaw, turning his head atop his boneless neck. Lestat's handsome face hovering over him, heartbreakingly earnest in its entreaty. "Please, please, let me feed you. Let me glut you."
He can tell himself, in the privacy of his own mind, that he was outraged at that first questing, pressing thumb. He can even admit to fear – and he had been afraid, in that moment. And yet, the very first reaction of his body had been an immediate and terribly starved Yes. God, yes.
He feels the moment he gives it up, fingers slipping from the ledge he was clutching. Actually speaking the words feels as impossible as cutting his own hand off, so he just nods, once, and lets Lestat see it. When he does, his pupils blow animal-wide, lips curving up in triumphant joy. Before he can panic and take it back, Louis is being kissed to within an inch of his life, Lestat only letting up on his lips to kiss his way down his throat, his nipples, his chest, his belly.
"Thank you," he whispers against Louis's hip, kisses the skin once and again. Like a starved man lifting a morsel to his lips and taking a moment to inhale, savour, before he bites down.
One of his hands stays on Louis's waist as he moves over to fish through their bedside table, thumb smoothing absently over his skin, and Louis tries to see it as a kindness to soothe him rather than a restraint to keep him from backing out. Either way, he's back soon enough, fitting himself in the space he'd shouldered between Louis's legs, popping the vial of oil open with impatient speed.
Louis means to ask him about his nails; he's gotten used to having them trailing round the sensitive skin around his cock and balls, has even been forced to admit to moments where the danger of it gets him going, but having them there is. No. Not gonna fucking happen. Except when he focuses on the fingers Lestat is currently coating with oil, they're already trimmed.
Fucking bastard. Complete fucking bastard.
He opens his mouth to say so, but then that big pale hand is back between his thighs, skipping right over his soft cock to swipe warmed slickness up and down the cleft of his ass. Over his hole, and Louis can't help but clench against it, flesh retreating as though it has anywhere to go. Lestat draws a deep breath.
He keeps his focus there, just gently petting back and forth, round and around. Accompanies it with gentle strokes of his thigh, belly, hips, until Louis feels almost used to it, until the oil is spread so that every bit of his asscrack feels wet. Then he starts to push.
Again, Louis finds himself frozen, trapped by his own mortification. It's going inside, the oil and Lestat's strength ensure that, but he can't let it, can't accept it. His stomach is twisting, breath stuttering; if he could move, he'd be up off the bed and running into the night.
"Shh, shh," Lestat murmurs like he's a fussy horse to be brought to harness. "Breathe deep, my Louis, and let me in."
"I'm fucking trying," he grits out. Lestat's finger is lodged in him, partway, like a thorn in its wound. His teeth itch to wrench it out.
"Stop trying, then," Lestat chides, shifting to press his lips warm and dry against Louis's belly, "and just feel. Just let go, and I will catch you."
Will you? Louis thinks wildly, body clenching and flinching beyond his control. It seems more likely that Lestat would let him tumble, for the pleasure of picking his limp body up off the ground afterwards.
Still, he tries, he does. Relaxing seems beyond him, every muscle wound too tight, but he tries bearing down and Lestat immediately takes the opportunity to push against him. The oil slicks the way and all at once, it's in, inside him, all the way to the base. He gasps, chokes, and Lestat's honeyed chuckle hits him like hot wax on his cheeks.
"Precious," Lestat murmurs, eyes wide and black. "How does it feel?"
Strange, so fucking strange, to be held open around the width of it, to have it pressing up in his guts like this. Lestat flexes it, the pad petting against his insides, and Louis just about stops himself from kicking the bastard reflexively, legs skittering across the sheets as he flinches. Another laugh, another kiss to his belly – lower, this time, like if Lestat could, he'd kiss his own finger where it's stuck in Louis's ass.
Then Lestat is sliding it out, until the very tip is all that's inside, tucked into his rim, rubbing against the tight ring of muscle that's meant to keep him out of Louis. When he pushes again, it goes so fucking easy, right back inside. Louis has to prop himself up, bending to look down between his legs, and see with his own eyes the evidence of what feels impossible. He hitches his hips up without meaning to, mouth falling open and a high little noise catching in his throat.
And oh, it is, it is in him, Lestat's finger all the way inside. As he watches, breathless, Lestat pulls it out again, pushes it back in, fucks him slow and intent and relentless, until Louis can't remember how getting it up there in the first place was so hard.
Then, all of a sudden, he's tucking a second one up against the first, already slicked from the mess he's made of Louis's skin. Louis tenses, draws a breath to tell the fucker to stop– too late. A moment of stunning pressure and they're both all the way in, thick and unyielding and more, so much more than one was.
When Lestat starts thrusting with them, Louis can't swallow down a helpless, dizzied moan. The stretch, the hot drag of Lestat's movement against thin, sensitive skin. Before he realises he's doing it, Louis is rocking into it, meeting Lestat at the pace he's set. Trying to hurry him, even.
Lestat notices, because of course he does, and Louis can't bear to look at his gleeful grin. "Oh, chéri, were you that desperate? Have you needed fucking this bad all this time, and never let me give it to you?"
"Nuh– oh– nuh-uh," Louis manages, even as he moves against Lestat, even as he loses his breath when Lestat drags his fingers apart, forcing his rim to stretch. Oh, God, he hadn't thought it would feel like this. Hadn't thought anything could feel like this.
"I should by rights punish you," Lestat teases, "for denying us both as long as you did, but Louis, I couldn't bear to– Look at you, look how much you love it. My little slut."
The word is like hot metal to his skin, like a fire in his gut. "I am not–" he starts, and then Lestat pulls his fingers nearly out and plunges them all the way back in, faster than he has yet, and any further words turn into a wordless yell of pleasure.
"No?" Fuck, fuck, the bastard is pulling his fingers apart inside him, the same inexorable strength that had wrestled him down and pulled back his head on their first night together. Stretching him wider, and it burns, and the burn is so fucking good. The openness, completely beyond his control. He clenches down against it, hard enough that if his man wasn't a monster, he'd likely break his fingers. But Lestat, older, stronger Lestat, just laughs and pulls him open wider. Holds him there until the tension breaks, until his muscles accept what's happening to him and go loose.
"Perfect, my perfect creature," Lestat croons, and Louis is too far gone to stop his shudder. Then, "You've adjusted so well, I think you're acclimated enough, hmm?" and Louis remembers to fear again.
Lestat is so fucking big, is the thing. Louis runs cathouses for a living, he's seen a fair array of dicks despite himself; enough to know he himself has nothing at all to worry about, for one. But Lestat is impractically, stupidly hung, the kind of thing that'd make half the girls wince and the other half perk up. Exactly like you'd expect from a man who carries himself like he does. Louis has not admitted, cannot admit, how much he loves the weight of it, the size of it, filling his hands and wrenching his jaw and pushing up against his thigh or belly or back. And now Lestat's going to try to fit that fucking monster in him.
Madness. There's no way. His body isn't made to do that, it just isn't. Then again, his body wasn't made to be drank from like a ripe peach, or to gulp down devil's blood and die and reform in a devil's shape. Lestat's never much cared for nature, or God's plan, or anything except his own pleasure – and, now, Louis's.
The slow easing of Lestat's fingers from his ass shocks him out of his swirling thoughts. His body closes back up in their wake, but it feels– wrong, somehow. Like something's missing. As though Lestat has once more changed his natural shape. He shivers and Lestat comes up to cover him, hands bracing by his head and caging him in, their faces hovering so close that Louis can't look up past him to the ceiling. Can't look anywhere else but at him.
"Ask me", he murmurs into the scant air between them. "Ask for my cock, Louis."
He can't. He can't say it. It will kill him.
"Ask me," Lestat presses again, voice heavy with intent. "How will I know you're ready, if you won't tell me?"
Louis shakes his head, almost reflexively. "No, nah, cause you don't want me to ask. You want me to beg."
Lestat's smile only grows at the accusation, eyes shining with his hunger. "Oh, will you? Will you beg me for it, beautiful man? Beg me to push in where you've never let anyone else, fill your hungry little hole up and give you all you've been craving?" He rubs himself against Louis's belly, beside his own cock, heavy and blood-hot and leaving his skin sticky-slick where he's leaking. Shifts his hips to angle lower, where the skin is painted with oil and the next rolling thrust sends the thick weight of him sliding right between Louis's asscheeks. The pressure against his hole, only for a moment, shocks the most shameful whine out of him, hips jerking like he's trying to get it in him.
Lestat laughs cruel and delighted, repeating the motion again and again, fucking his body without fucking him, and Louis has never felt empty in this way. It's torture. He can't bear it, desperation building until it is just as potent and vicious as his fear, his twisting sick-making shame.
One more glancing thrust drives the whisper out of him. "Please."
Lestat stills, hovers over him, eyes alight with anticipation for the victory he can sense coming. "Please?"
"Please fuck me," Louis whispers, feeling like a broken thing. Like a broken thing that was made to break.
And there, past the lust and a man's dominating hunger, there is that look that Lestat gives only him. Soft as the hidden inner parts of the body and more full of love than Louis had known a soul could hold without coming apart. "Beloved," he whispers, "of course." Eyes still fixed on Louis's, he finally rests the wide, blunt head of his cock against Louis's hole, and starts to press in.
Fuck, fuck. It hurts, more than fingers, wrenching him open and holding him there, and Lestat shows no mercy, keeps pushing in slow and and certain as the tide, easing his way inside as Louis gasps and flails and clutches at him and lets him, never says stop, never says slow down. Lets him and lets him and lets him until Lestat's hips are pressed up against his ass, the whole of him tucked up into Louis's open body.
His hole clenches down hard, like it's trying to force Lestat out, but all it does is make brutally clear exactly how much cock he's stuck on. That, and make Lestat groan like he's been gutted, hips jerking like he's trying to get even impossibly deeper. His golden head dips to press his forehead against Louis's, their sweat mingling, their breaths mingling. Is there any part of him left now that doesn't have a bit of Lestat in it? Even his veins are filled with the man's blood.
"Good, so good," he's saying, voice shed of nearly all its humanity. "Oh, Louis, Louis, look how well you've taken me. And you said you couldn't, chéri, now look at you." He rolls his hips forward again, slower now, then starts to draw them back. Louis flinches, moans, loud like he doesn't know how to stop himself being right now.
If the friction was a burn when it was only a couple of fingers, now it's a city fire, the sort that levels whole districts and takes lives by the hundreds. Louis shudders, twists, instinct trying to decide whether to pull away from it or go towards. As though any part of him knows the answer to that.
"So fucking tight," Lestat nearly snarls, as he forces himself back in. Then, with a wicked, teeth-bearing smile, "I'd forgotten. It's been so long since I've taken a virgin."
The word puts a stake through his heart. Louis's whole body shudders, cock jerking between their stomachs, mind alight. It takes him a few breaths to manage speech again. "You know goddamn well I ain't no virgin," he hisses, the words cut up by choppy gasps as Lestat starts to ease himself out.
"Well," Lestat hums, before snapping his hips and shaking Louis to his bones, wrenching a humiliating keening moan from his lips. "Not anymore." Before Louis can say shit about that, before he can think past the overwhelming heat in his gut at the thought – that he had been, hadn't he? Never touched down there before Lestat coaxed his legs open and took it from him – his hips are moving in earnest, and everything else is gone.
How many people has he seen getting fucked in his life? How many times has he taken Lily, or Lestat, and all that time, he'd never had any idea it felt like this. It can't be this good for everyone, all the time, otherwise no working girl would ever need to learn how to convincingly fake it, but how? Some small point within him keeps getting rubbed up against, and it's like his lower half is melting, heat turning his insides cherry-red and steaming.
He'll want it like this again, he knows that already. Again and again, and never get enough. He doesn't know how he'll ever be able to ask Lestat for it, but he hadn't known he was able to take a cock like this in the first place, so what the fuck does he know about himself anymore?
Lestat is speeding up his rhythm by degrees, until he's pounding in and out, the bed rocking beneath them until he's the only solid thing left in Louis's world. Him and the cock impaling him, going up so far, splitting him so wide. It's getting easy, even, the pain a distant memory, lost in how strangely wonderful it is to be moved in, taken.
"Can you feel yourself loosening?" Lestat asks him hungrily. "You're going so soft, so sweet for me. Fitting me just as you were made to do. Can you tell me how good it feels, chéri, or have I fucked all the words clean out your head?"
Louis opens his mouth, probably to curse him, but Lestat aims his next thrust right at that sweet, aching thing inside him, and all that comes out is a whine.
"I thought so," Lestat croons, "it's too much, isn't it, too new, too big. That beautiful clever brain all clouded over by how good I'm making you feel. Is this what you've needed all this time, Louis, love? All your self filled up with me, mind falling to pieces on my cock?"
God, the words burn him, humiliation twisting into the pleasure singing through his nerves until they're one and the same. He grasps at Lestat's back, blood blooming in the air where he pierces skin and makes them both moan, stares up into his lovely face through eyes blurred with red tears.
Lestat fucks him outside time, outside space. The street has fallen completely away, Louis's sharpened vampire ears rendered useless for capturing anything that isn't Lestat's moans and filthy words, his own helpless noises. He doesn't know when he starts moving with Lestat's thrusts, grinding up against the planes of his stomach, the pleasure inside and the pleasure outside braiding together
Lestat laughs at him when a particularly forceful thrust makes him cry out long and loud. "Oh, but you're not a slut, non. Not so desperate you could die, not stuffed with cock and still begging for more with every breath. I told you, Louis, I see you, I know you. And I'll give you all of it, all you need."
One hand detaches itself from the sheets, coming up to his face. "Lick," Lestat instructs, and Louis lunges up to do so, coating Lestat's broad palm in the spit from his gasping mouth. Lestat replaces his hand with his lips as he reaches between them, the first touch to Louis's cock making him groan straight into Lestat's mouth. His hand matches the pace of his hips, each thrust knocking Louis up into his grip, suspending him between the two with no relenting, no escape.
"You're close," Lestat pants, "aren't you? Going to come just like this, come around me while I make you feel better than anyone ever has." And he is, he is, it's rushing up on him like a freight train and all he can do is lie in its path and take it.
He hangs off Lestat as it builds, arched almost all the way off the bed, crushing the hand rubbing over his cock between them, perfect pressure and that huge, dragging weight within him, his body's desperate clenching around it, and Lestat keeps going, twists his hand and snaps his hips, calls him "Beautiful, beautiful, my Louis, give it to me, your first, your only–"
The orgasm takes him out entirely, moving through him like a hurricane stripping the city bare.
By the time he has his vision back, he feels like a puddle more than a man. Lestat is still there, moving so slowly now, easy glide in and out because Louis has no more tension left in him, no more fight. He can feel how open he is, the space Lestat's carved out within him now accepting his cock like a custom-made sheath. Over him, Lestat's eyes are closed, brow furrowed, mouth twisted as if in a private agony. For a time, he just lies there and watches, lets his body be moved through as he catches his breath.
"Les," he whispers eventually, and those huge-pupiled eyes snap to him at once, drilling into him as though, if he just tries hard enough, Lestat can climb into his brain once again. "I feel good?" It shames him to say it, but the shame is so far away now. Lestat has left no room for it.
A broken noise spills from Lestat's lips, his hips stuttering. "Good?" he whispers hoarsely, "Louis, tu es parfaite, parfaite, rien ne s'est jamais senti mieux." He starts to pick up speed, jostling breathy whimpers from Louis's lips as oversensitive nerves spark and crackle and leaning down to swallow each one. Feeding on Louis as he feeds him, like the night of his making again, an electrical circuit, an ouroboros, a cycle with no end and no weak points to break it apart.
"I'm going to come inside you," Lestat hisses into his ear – did the serpent sound the same when it came to Eve? – "my love, heart that beats beside my heart. Fill you full of me, all of me, you have all of me, Louis–" and he does, rhythm lost as he snaps his hips once, twice, again, kissing Louis again to swallow his exhausted keening as his cock jerks inside his body, pumping him full.
Can he feel it, up inside him? Louis fancies he can. Warm and slick, the evidence of Lestat's desire, of what Louis let him do. The rest of that evidence is crushing him, Lestat collapsed on top of his chest, boneless and heavy. It's not uncomfortable, not at all; without Lestat to cover him and hold him down, he's sure he'd drift straight off the bed.
Eventually, uncounted minutes later, Lestat recovers enough to roll them both to the side, their legs still hopelessly entangled. He sighs deep, like a big, well-worked dog, and starts to ease himself out. To feel even a little of Lestat's cock leaving him makes Louis's full heart flip.
"Wait," he whispers before he can stop himself.
Lestat stills immediately, blinking down at him. "For what?"
"Could you–" he has to bury his head in Lestat's shoulder to get the words out. "Stay in. For a moment."
A moment of perfect stillness, then Lestat groans as if he's coming again and Louis is being gathered up and nestled against his chest. "For as long as you want," Lestat is saying, "forever if I could."
Lestat wrapped around him and filling him, his face mashed into the other man's collarbone, no air between them at all. Louis could take the him of before this and shake him silly for the fool he was. Nothing here, nothing between the two of them, could possibly hurt him, could ever be wrong.
Thank you, he mouths against the soft pale skin he's got his lips against, and if Lestat hears it, his only answer is to hold him tighter.