Archive of Our Own

Invitations to Louis's sanctuary, far above the glitter of Dubai, are few and far between. Generally, Louis travels to him, or they find midway points now that Lestat is beginning again to make trips outside the bound of his home. But Louis had just come off a back-to-back-to-back run of auctions and deals, made more gruelling by the ongoing work of separating out his and Armand's entangled assets. When Lestat had proposed that, rather than drag himself all the way out to the United States, he settle himself comfortably in his home and bring Lestat to him instead, Louis had taken the suggestion with gratitude and guarded bafflement at Lestat's thoughtfulness. 

That hadn't seemed entirely fair; surely, he hadn't always been so poor a companion. But no matter. Lestat intends to redeem himself with interest.

But now he's here, settled close on Louis's enormous, canary-yellow couch with drinks that Louis's manservant had mixed before leaving for the night – they always seem to default to Sazeracs, when together – Lestat's voice seems a little too loud to his ears, his hands unable to still. Louis has clearly noticed and is just as clearly ignoring it for Lestat's benefit, in the way Lestat has gotten used enough to that he no longer feels so acutely humoured.

He hadn't quite become a true agoraphobe, and the burrowing animal's disquiet has been fading further every time he strays from New Orleans' bosom. Still, he never quite finds himself at ease here, in this edifice of concrete and strange shifting glass. He'd sniped at Louis's architectural preferences the first time he was invited, when his mood had been noted. Had taken a shot or two at the interior design, as well, before Louis had purchased his newest piece and hung it in pride of place. Lestat still cannot look at it full on without wanting quite badly to cry.

There's something about being in Louis's home, a home they do not share. The strangeness of it, to arrive in a place where his love dwells and be a visitor. To be within Louis's territory and know himself not to belong.

Perhaps it is that unease that makes him damn himself. They've been moving closer and closer together on the L of the couch as their drinks empty and the night draws on; that same magnetism that has always pulled him towards Louis, whenever they're in the same building, the same city. He has only recently been invited back into Louis's bed, still feels it acutely as a privilege, but the way Louis's gemstone eyes keep darting down to his lips, to the expanse of chest exposed by his tenuously buttoned shirt, emboldens him.

When the conversation falls quite naturally by the wayside, Louis says, "Thank you for making the trip, I know it was a long way for a date," and his voice dips low and sweet.

And that is when, quite without meaning to, Lestat puts his foot in it. "I'm just grateful to lend my assistance, especially after so long without."

Louis blinks. "So long? It hadn't even been three months, I'd hardly call that so long." There's a little edge to his voice; they both knew Louis hadn't intended for them to fall into bed again so quickly. Lestat rushes to distract from it.

"Yes, but then account for the decades beforehand! Seventy years, was it? Seventy years of bad sex; I have much to help you make up for."

He realises he's blundered in retrospect, as Louis draws slightly back from him, eyes narrowing in that particular way that sends a thrill up his spine that is only mostly fear. "What makes you think the sex was bad?" he asks slowly.

Well, he can hardly unsay it. Nothing left to do but double down. "You forget, mon amour, I had the dubious pleasure of bedding Armand as well. I know what he likes." Lestat leans back across the space between them, trailing a finger down Louis's lovely cheek, the gentle prickle of his eternal stubble. "And I know what you like. Not particularly compatible."

He isn't sure what he's expecting, but it's not for Louis to raise an eyebrow and smile, small and a little incredulous. "You know some of what I like."

A moment as if he'd raised his foot to a stair that isn't there to step on. "Louis," he says, "don't tease. After all our years together, n'est pas possible–"

"Oh, vraiment?" Louis snorts, leaning back out of Lestat's reach. "One hundred and forty-six years of life, Lestat, you don't think I found more than a couple of ways I like it?"

Which is fair, but there's a couple more ways Louis might like it, and then there's the things that the Armand Lestat knows and cordially despises demands of a man. "I simply don't see him providing any of what you need," he says, and than dares to add, "Or, honestly, you providing any of what he needs."

"I'm sorry?" Louis laughs, brow creasing, "You think we spent seventy-seven years fumbling each other?"

"People have been married longer with worse sex," Lestat reasons. Seventy-seven might be stretching it, but there had been long period of their own bed gathering dust, hadn't there? And without Lestat to coax Louis out of his black moods, or Armand out of whatever he'd replaced his crypt with, what hope could they have had, either of them?

And wasn't that an intriguing thought? 

He's already committed the sin of bringing Armand up in Louis's presence, he may as well be hanged for a sheep. In that spirit, he murmurs, "Perhaps if you'd had me there, I could have helped matters along..."

He trails off because Louis, his lovely Louis, is laughing at him. "Oh, you'd love that. I can see it now, I don't even need to be in your head." He tips his own head in that way that makes him look particularly vulpine. "The two of us naked at your feet, pawing at each other all wound up and helpless, not getting anywhere, turning our faces up to you to whimper for your big, white–"

"Louis!" Lestat exclaims sharply, because that does not feel fair in the slightest. He glares, and only gets another infuriatingly lovely laugh in response.

"Oh come on, tell me that's not a bit what it is."

"It is not," Lestat snaps, "you vile man."

"Sure," Louis drawls, stretching the word. "Well, I hate to ruin whatever entirely politically correct fantasy you've got cooking up in that head of yours, but matters didn't need helping along in the slightest."

His smile dips, then; curls in on itself. A little bitter, a little wistful. "In point of fact, the sex was… good. Really good, honestly. Sometimes, it was the only thing that was." He waves a hand, face pensive. "I'm not saying I didn't have my off periods, you remember. But even then..." Perhaps a little more wistfulness in the smile, there. "Even then, we made things work."

"Things like what?" Lestat cannot drag the pitch of his voice down for the life of him. Of course, of course he remembers the 'off' periods. The most beautiful man in the world, blood of his blood, right there in his home and still refusing him. The rebuffs, tentative at first, before they sharpened. The walls of bitterness and two sets of hurt pride that had built up between them, layer by layer like papier-mâché, around the cold solid core that Louis did not want Lestat to touch him. 

It had occurred to him a few times, in the long years he'd spent in seclusion, that perhaps Louis had simply not wanted to be touched. Or perhaps, and far worse, he had wanted only to be held, and had not trusted Lestat to only hold him.

And Armand had found a way to make things work?

"Well," Louis says, eyes dancing, "we still had our roles; the dynamic between us was still there, whether my libido was interested in the proceedings or not. I didn't want to get as elaborate with it, maybe, but there was still a measure of satisfaction there for both of us."

"Dynamic?" Lestat queries, mind spinning.

Now, he's certain that Louis is toying with him, the way he smiles at the question. "Like you said, you know what Armand likes."

"Armand," Lestat says slowly, "likes a master."

Louis nods. "He does."

Lestat tries, honestly, to picture it. It isn't that the idea is necessarily ludicrous, just that nothing he knows of Louis gives him an image to set over Armand's prone form. Louis had certainly never attempted to master him.

Something of it nags at him. Perhaps just the possibility that in this new century, there are sides to the man he adores so totally that he has not been allowed to see.

"Well," he says, feeling unaccountably as if he is balanced on some edge, "you haven't tried any of your formidable powers on me. Why is that?"

Louis tilts a shoulder, tilts his smile. "For one, I'd need a different approach. You and Armand are very different creatures, after all. He craved obedience, ached to bend, went wherever I dragged him with a song in his heart. You?" He kisses his beautiful teeth. "You're a brat."

Lestat would be lying if he said that was the first time someone had used that word to refer to him. He's enjoyed it, in the past; revelled in it, worn it as a badge of pride. The Louis he remembers from their romance a century past had never talked to him like that. Perhaps the surprise of it in his lovely mouth is what sets the smouldering fire in Lestat's gut.

"Ah, so you are worried you're not up to the task," he says, in the hope of masking whatever it was that his face just did.

A slow smile. Louis isn't worried, not one bit. Louis is entirely assured. It is not quite the loveliest thing Lestat has ever seen, but at a certain point, how to differentiate between heavens? "Did I say that? I don't remember saying that." 

In one easy movement, he rolls his shoulders back into the couch, one arm coming up to spread over the back. Opening his chest, straightening his spine, but still perfectly relaxed. Lestat's mouth goes dry, but honestly, Louis blinking will do that to him.

Still, it's quite the display, he can't deny it. The effortlessness with which Louis summons this new energy into the room. Lestat had seen him among his inferiors – who had, for reasons he still does not grasp, very obviously considered themselves Louis's betters – in their past life together, he knows Louis can command a room, can command a man, through nothing more than his words and his studied mastery of his body and how others perceive it. But his beloved had never brought that command into the bedroom, had never seemed to want to.

But, Lestat cannot help but think, that was then. That was before most of a century apparently spent as the master to a creature far stranger and crueller than Lestat could ever hope to be. The Louis that those decades produced says, "You'd mind me, if I decided to put you in your place. I'd just have to make you, but that's alright." A wicked flicker of a smile. "That could be fun."

A prickle across Lestat's skin, as if the open spaces in Louis's glass-and-concrete sitting room are expanding, leaving him exposed in the centre. Louis's gaze has shifted past assessing to pinning. Lestat shifts in his seat, only realising he's done so when he sees Louis track the movement. He makes himself smile, wide and confident. "And how do you propose to attempt this, this putting me in my place?"

Louis stills, something careful in his regard for a moment. Then he leans in a little, pushing into Lestat's space. One of his hands lands squarely on Lestat's thigh, a perfect weight through the thin, tight fabric of his trousers. He honestly can't help but spread his legs a little wider.

"See," Louis muses, "you have some pretty obvious levers. I can't give you anything you won't find your way round to enjoying, but I can always take things away." The beautiful hand releases his thigh all at once, far too soon, Louis making a show of flexing it and pulling it back. The loss is immediate, a little wrench on his heartstring, and for all Lestat tries to play it off, he knows that his cruel darling has seen.

In retaliation, he settles his own hand in the spot Louis had vacated. Taking a little more space, given his are bigger, and the angle is different. His thumb comes quite naturally to rest against his crotch. Perhaps he had moved his hand a bit further up his leg. "Ah, but I have two hands of my own. And if my beloved should leave me bereft and crying out for touch..."

It's only when Louis's eyes sharpen that he realises his mistake. He'd only meant that he'd satisfy himself, but how could he muster a defence, when they'd both heard the same old words in his voice? Lestat presses his eyes closed a moment, cursing his present self for a fool, cursing his past self with even greater fervour. 

He's just opening his mouth to try an apology when Louis speaks. Very calm, his voice, almost casual. "I could always cage it. Lock it up nice and tight, so I never have to be bothered about it unless I want to be."

There is a moment when Lestat has absolutely no idea what he just heard. The words simply won't resolve themselves into sense. When they do, it shocks a laugh out of him, far higher than it should be. This might be the first moment in Louis's company that he's felt anything close to an ingénue.

"Chéri," he manages, fighting to get his voice under control, "do you really think they make those things big enough?"

That only makes Louis smile, with an edge of condescension. "Then we'll go custom. Kind of good people who specialise in that sort of metalwork, I'm sure they'd be understanding of my predicament." He tips his head to the side, considering, eyes narrowed, and abruptly, Lestat realises he is serious.

It's a kick straight to the gut. Could he? Almost certainly. Would he?

Would Lestat let him?

The thought of it. Hungry but unable to eat, parched but unable to drink. Burning under the skin with no chance of satiation, the most tender part of himself locked away beyond any gentle, loving touch. It opens up a pit in his gut, makes the back of his throat ache, his eyes prickle. He would go mad, entirely mad.

Would he? Allow Louis to do something so cruel, just to please him?

Across from him, Louis watches, waits. Drinking in the sudden fear that Lestat is certain he's not managing to conceal. A little smirk on his full, gorgeous lips.

"Don't." Louis doesn't even blink, as if he hadn't spoken at all, so Lestat follows with a desperate, bitten "Please."

That gets him a little more of a reaction, Louis's gaze softening and sharpening at once. "No?" he enquires mildly. "Why shouldn't I? How else am I to trust that you'd mind me?"

"I will. I can." He is pleading now, all of a sudden, a dog begging for table scraps. It feels like flaying himself might.

Louis snorts, so cruelly casual. "Remember, I have actually met you."

"I can be good. I can," he implores. "For you, Louis, I can." For Louis, anything. 

How many times has he said that, thought that, believed it in his bones, and then turned around and denied him? Anything, except you can't fuck around, actually, I've decided. Anything, except I will not abide your moods, your sorrow. Anything, except you can never leave me, no matter how I hurt you, never.

But Louis had left, once then again. Had built a life far from Lestat and New Orleans, one that had lasted the test of time, as much as it burns him to admit it. Louis can and will walk away from him, he's proven that to both of them, and maybe he won't be happy the way that Lestat makes him happy, but he will be. He's stronger, now. A man, a vampire in full possession of himself. What can Lestat do in the face of such splendour, but yield that final ground that he'd never even realised he was holding?

A hand under his chin – when had he bowed his head? – and Louis is tilting it up, luminous eyes fixed on his. He holds Lestat's gaze for long moments, scrutiny that reminds him of their reunion, after Louis had brought him back to his hotel room to shelter from the sun. The way he'd regarded Lestat from across the space between them in the enormous bed, face blank, eyes searching for something. Lestat still doesn't know if he's found it.

"I believe you'll try," Louis pronounces, at last. Then he smiles, sweetly condescending, unbearably beautiful. "Maybe that's all I can ask from you, hmm?"

"Ask anything of me," Lestat says at once. Louis's soft skin on his, that single point, it loosens his tongue until he's babbling. "I'll prove it, Louis, I will."

And Louis grins, soft and brilliant as the full moon rising from behind a cloud. "Baby, you are so fucking easy sometimes. Like a dog, really." He only grins wider when Lestat's eyes flutter, his guts gone warm and twisting. "Yeah, one of those big, solid mastiffs, pretty coat, all bark and a nice strong bite. But you're tame, hm?"

"You tamed me," Lestat whispers, words drawn up from inside him.

"Brought you to heel, did I?" Louis releases his chin and sits back, legs slipping open wider. The soft, tailored fabric of his trousers only highlights his thighs, their lush weight against the rest of his slender form. He nods between them. "Then heel."

And Lestat does, and it is as easy as drinking from a punctured artery, the movement flowing through his body until it's down on its knees and staring up at Louis above him. Louis and his luminescent green eyes, molten warm as they look down on him. Lestat sits back on his heels, legs a little spread because he's legitimately too hard to comfortably close them, and lets his lips part, just a little.

"Good boy," Louis bestows upon him, and Lestat shivers all over.

Boy had only once been spoken in their bedroom, before, back in their early days. Lestat had crooned some sweet nothing, mindless with love, and Louis had gotten up off the bed right there and then. He can still remember how hard and cold his eyes had gone as he tugged his clothes back on; carved jade locked behind glass, untouchable. Looking down on Lestat, and not much liking what he saw.

I'll be a lot of things for you, even things I shouldn't. But I ain't and never will be your fucking boy. I hear that out your mouth again, that's it. Louis had never clarified what it was going to be, and that once, Lestat had not pushed. This hadn't been one of those times where Louis wanted it, really, and just needed the gentle coaxing of a loving hand in order to admit it. There'd been old anger there, cold and set.

For a while, he'd thought Louis was objecting only to being patronised, or perhaps to the reminder of the gulf between their ages. Then, at some point, he'd started to notice the sheer volume of their peers who habitually referred to Louis as a boy, even those a decade younger than his companion's apparent age. He had noticed, too, the way Louis responded; understated and regal, with a chilling look or an intimidating yet deniable shift of his weight. Often, though, the way he didn't respond, if the man doing the insulting had any degree of wealth and status whatsoever. Letting it lie. Choking on his rage, his sorrow.

It galls him still, that Louis could think he, Lestat, was anything like those grubs. That he should be tarred with the same brush. But now is not the time to raise this again, and besides, whatever history lies there between them, it does nothing to dull the power of that word in Louis's mouth. The degradation is gentle, tender. A dog, if he is well-trained and diligent in his duties and does not bark at nothing or soil the floors, is a thing to be kept and cared for, petted and fed and fussed over. He's struggling to remember why he might ever have objected to that.

"Shirt off," Louis says – no, orders. Not an order Lestat could ever resent, in truth. He skins out of it quickly, tossing it ostentatiously behind him and settling back on his heels, squaring his shoulders and flexing just a little. Louis, who knows exactly what he's doing, eyes him appreciatively. 

Louis removes his own shirt unhurriedly, no showmanship to it. Not that he could avoid looking appealing if he tried, but this is not for Lestat; it's for himself, his own comfort. As Lestat shedding his own shirt was for Louis and his viewing pleasure. 

He undoes his trousers slowly, pops the buttons that he apparently still favours in his fly one by one. Lestat is half-expecting him to just pull himself out, but instead, he shucks his trousers and briefs entirely, sliding the fine material down hips and thighs and shapely calves, kicking off his loafers, and then he's entirely bare. Miles of perfect skin, trim chest and luscious thighs, parted now to bare himself. His cock risen entirely erect, the lovely bobbing line of it. The sweet curve of his balls, inviting the gentlest of kisses, and beneath them, the softest hidden skin around his hole. 

Lestat could live a millennium more and never get used to such a view. He leans forward, straining, starved– and is prevented. A strong hand knotted in his hair, just enough force to catch him short, so close to his prize.

"Wait."

For a moment, Lestat doesn't register the word. Then, he stares incredulously. Wait? Impossible, Louis is right there, Louis's most precious parts are right there to be pleasured, to be devoured–

"Lestat." Louis's voice is as firm and steady as carved wood, implacable. "I'm going to let go, then I'm going to get myself settled, and you're going to wait until I say. You're going to prove to me that you can do as you're told, even if it's something you don't want to do. Otherwise, you can get up and go to the spare room for the day, cause you won't be getting shit. Understood?"

The Lestat who had had Louis first would have scoffed, barrelled straight through the command on his endless quest to give Louis all the pleasure he could possibly hold. But Louis isn't denying himself as he used to. Louis is, very obviously, making a point. Louis is looking down on him with one eyebrow slightly cocked, lips slightly curved up. Prove me right, those beautiful eyes say. Prove you won't listen. Prove that you're still the wild beast I cannot trust.

So Lestat takes a deep breath – perhaps a bad idea, given how saturated every breath is with Louis from this vantage, the slight body odour that is all most vampires build up, but even more thrilling in its subtlety – and waits. 

Louis smiles, hot and sharp. "Very nice," he pronounces from on high, and lets go of his hold. After a moment to ensure he's being obeyed – he is, it's killing Lestat, but damn it, he is – he slings his legs over Lestat's shoulders, heels pressing into his spine. He slides down the couch cushion until his hips are angled upwards, until his beautiful hole is right there, so close. So small, it looks, as if Lestat has never pushed his cock all the way inside it – but then, he hadn't before he turned Louis, froze him in this angel's form forever. Nobody had. 

He'd been the first to get his mouth on it, too. Not the first to slide Louis's cock past his lips, but the first to drag his cheeks apart and lick all the way inside. That first time, Louis had nearly kicked him off their bed in his outrage, gaping down at him like he'd just stabbed Louis, or his own tongue. It had taken plenty of coaxing and gentling and, finally, pleading to get back between those sweet thighs, all of which was entirely worth it when he had his prize, had his Louis grinding down helplessly onto his face, sobbing with shame-laden pleasure. 

If there's any shame left in this twenty-first century Louis, it's not for moments such as this. He presents himself to Lestat with fluid ease, settling comfortably into the cushions. Then he makes them both fucking wait, as if Lestat can't see how heavy and flushed his cock is, can't make out the slight clench of his hole as he, no doubt, imagines it filled.

"You want it, boy?" he asks at last, and again the vivid little shot of pleasure from that word.

Well, if Louis wants a pet, he can have one. Rather than dredge up words, Lestat just opens his mouth and lets his tongue loll out. 

"Jesus," Louis breathes, "look at you. Already panting for it." He reaches down to twine his fingers in Lestat's hair again, the pads of his fingers rubbing across his scalp, just a shivering hit of talon behind them. Then he takes a proper hand-hold and says, "Go on, then."

Before he's even finished speaking, Lestat has his face as deep as it can get into the crease of Louis's perfect ass. He laps at the precious furl of his hole like the starving beast he feels, soaking the sensitive skin all around before he focuses the point of his tongue in. Louis enjoys a bit of a stretch, so he pushes forward before he's softened the ring of muscle, undulating his tongue against the resistance he finds there, burrowing inside. Above him, Louis moans his appreciation and rolls his hips lazily forward, pushing himself further onto the intrusion.

"Mmm, that's nice," he hums, as if to himself, but it still sets Lestat aflame. Still spurs him to work his tongue as deep into the silken clutch of Louis's body as it will go, lapping and thrusting and fucking him, dragging against his walls, against the still-tight rim. It's like a feat after famine, stuffing himself full as he does his absolute best to stuff Louis to bursting, licking in until it strains, until the pain is one more singing string in the symphony of their joining. He could spend hours here, and perhaps he already has; time has fallen away entirely, has ceased to have any meaning whatsoever.

"Gonna buy you a collar, if this is how you want to act." Louis's voice has gone so sweetly breathy, saturated by lust, rising and falling as Lestat tends to him. "Black leather, I think, and a good sturdy O-ring. Get you a leash, too, some pretty chain. Maybe I'll bring you out to a club night somewhere, show folks how nicely you heel for me, how well I've got you trained."

And Lestat can see it, the picture they'd make. Louis isn't a small man, not really, but he is not large; elegant more than he is imposing. And Lestat knows the picture he makes when he squares his shoulders, knows the presence his shape gives him. And there he'd be, one step behind, trailing his master like any good dog. Would Louis have him crawl? Have him roll over, show his belly to the room of mortals who couldn't possibly know the monster they saw so tenuously leashed? But perhaps they'd see it for a moment, when he opened his murderous mouth for Louis to slide fingers inside and demonstrate how little he had to fear from the beast he'd tamed. 

The taste of Louis's flesh thick in his mouth, the feel of that perfect hole pulsing around his tongue and his own saliva slicking the whole half of his face, the vision filling his head and the vision above him; Lestat's hips judder forward helplessly, grinding into nothing but the ruthless constriction of his trousers, merde, why does he wear them so tight? It's agony. It's bliss.

"Oh, pet," Louis coos, and Lestat whimpers into him. "I forgot how much this turns you on. Poor, needy puppy, humping the air like you can't help yourself." And oh, he can't, he cannot, Louis's cruel words, his flushed cheeks, blown pupils, bitten lip. His utterly satisfied expression as Lestat pleasures him, debases himself for him. 

"But I suppose you are being good, even with, ah, some provocation." Louis shifts his weight and, horribly, hauls one of his legs off of Lestat's shoulders. The sudden lack of pressure is gutting, especially when Louis's hold in his hair is used to drag Lestat's tongue out of him. He strains against it, only distantly aware that he's panting, but then Louis tells him, "Stay," perfectly commanding even with his voice gone hazy with pleasure. Claws digging into his thighs, Lestat stays.

"Fuck," Louis murmurs, settling his legs on the floor and shifting a little up on the couch – away from Lestat, how is this to be borne? – "you're actually trembling. I'd make you wait a bit longer, it's flattering as all hell, but that would just be cruel, wouldn't it, baby?" The hand in Lestat's hair softens, and thank all the saints, he's drawn back in. Up, this time, where Louis's beautiful cock waits proud and slick round the head, and he's only given a moment to thrill at it before Louis's leg is right up against his crotch, a line of painful, perfect pressure. 

"Go on, hump it," Louis instructs him, as he positions Lestat's mouth over his cockhead, so that Lestat's panting breaths are saturated with the scent of it as they fan out over its beautiful surface. "I want you coming like a dog, up against my leg, cause you don't need anything else. You'll take anything I give you." And to prove his point, he pulls Lestat down until his lips are brushing the silk-smooth head of the most beautiful cock Lestat fancies he has ever seen. Pre-come smudges warm and wet across them, and Lestat moans unsteadily, holds himself frozen with every scrap of strength he has left.

Then, blessedly, "Suck," Louis orders, and Lestat lunges. 

The first touch of his tongue on the firm length, the maddeningly soft skin, makes him groan so deep his chest vibrates with it. He licks a broad, hungry stripe from base to beaded tip, swirls his tongue around the head and luxuriates in the iron burst of Louis's pre-come, the vivid slap of his answering want. Then Louis's hand presses against his head, and he takes the hint and swallows him down. 

What bliss, to be so filled. Louis on his tongue, Louis sliding in and out of him, Louis slipping into the welcoming clutch of his throat. The hand fisted in his hair sets a rhythm and Lestat follows it gladly; deep and not at all fast, nearly luxurious. Louis building his own pleasure like stoking a furnace, using Lestat's mouth to drive himself higher and higher, and what a privilege it is to be a body, Louis's body, Louis's pet.

Louis likes to finish deep inside, and so when Lestat feels his balls drawing tight against his chin, he pushes himself all the way onto Louis's cock, hilting it in his throat and swallowing in hungry rhythm. Above him, his master cries out, fist tight in Lestat's hair, hips rolling as if to prove to himself that he can't push any further in, that he has Lestat as completely as he possibly could, has him entirely. 

He comes, it feels, straight into Lestat's stomach, and rarely has he ever felt so perfectly full, so well-used for his true and proper purpose. 

"Goddamn," Louis breathes, relaxing his hand on Lestat's hair but keeping him there, nose pressed to soft brown skin. Lets him nuzzle into Louis's lap, luxuriate in the heady scent of him, the gentle warmth of a well-fed vampire, the curly little hairs tickling his face. Lestat, in turn, loosens his mouth, lolls his tongue slightly, makes himself a comfortable resting place for his master's cock. 

After a long, golden moment of peace, he's drawn gently up and off, shushed indulgently when he can't help but whine. As if to soothe him, the leg he has his thighs wrapped around presses in harder, and Lestat realises he'd been rolling his hips into it this entire time. It's starting to chafe a little, no matter how soft the fabric of his briefs, but he could no more stop himself chasing the sparks of stimulation than he could bite off his own tongue, than he could stop the stream of whimpers spilling from his lips without Louis's cock to stifle them.

"Doesn't that feel nice, puppy?" Louis teases him from far above. "See what you get when you do as you're told? Keep behaving and it'll keep getting sweeter, I promise." As if Lestat could doubt him, in this moment when the whole world is Louis, his words, his hand in Lestat's hair, his taste smeared across his aching tongue, the solidity of his shin for Lestat to grind his cock against, burning alive with need.

"Look at you, now," Louis murmurs, and when Lestat looks up at him, he's looking down, their eyes meeting. Louis's expression is softened with the languor of his orgasm, his eyes alive with satisfaction and pride. "My good boy."

And that's how Lestat comes, those words he would never have expected to find so precious ringing in his ears. Soiling his painfully tight trousers, balls spasming in their confinement, the friction agonising, the contractions of it shaking his whole body. It feels impossibly good. He never wants it to end. 

When it inevitably does, he feels wrung entirely out. Left to his own devices, he would collapse to the floor, an undignified puddle of vampire, but there are gentle hands on him, petting over him, urging him up. "Come on," a voice from the heavens, "come up here. Yeah, there you are. There you go. I have you, honey, I have you."

Strong, slender arms locked around him, the softness of Louis's shirt against his cheek. His constricting, damp trousers are blessedly stripped away; he thinks he can hear fabric tearing, but honestly, he couldn't care less if he tried. More skin on Louis's skin, their legs tangling together as Louis gathers him to his chest and tips them both to lie down, Lestat his blanket. And isn't Lestat fortunate, that his owner is so permissive about letting pets on the furniture?

For long minutes, they breathe together. Louis's arms around him tighten sometimes, clutching him close, before relaxing again into a gentle cradle. Lestat, for his part, finds himself a little surprised by how affected he feels. Centuries of life, and he's hardly stinted on the debauchery in that time. This isn't the first time he's been on his knees for a lover, not the first time submission has been demanded of him. 

Perhaps, though, the first time he's been on his knees and felt any true weight in the gesture. Perhaps the first time submission has been demanded of him by somebody he loves quite so encompassingly. Louis is not his first love, will likely not be his last as eternity stretches out, but no other love have yet asked of him the things Louis has. At least now, in this century, Lestat may be halfway capable of meeting him there.

"You alright in there?" Louis enquires gently. 

Lestat digs his face out of the perfect cushion of Louis's shoulder to answer. He peers up from beneath his lashes, all widened eyes and softened mouth, and purrs, "So I was good?"

Louis's smile is terribly amused, yes, but also terribly fond. "Yes, Lestat," he drawls. "You were very good for me." Then he cocks an eyebrow. "And I take it I've made my point?"

If the Lestat of earlier this evening was in front of him now, it would be a great struggle not to point and laugh. But how could that man have known the marvellous thing his Louis has blossomed into? Not just the power he now assumes as comfortably as a wolfs-fur coat; the splendid ease of him, the unrestrained strength, the clarity of his self. The way he has looked Lestat in the eye and told him what he was, what he wanted, and that this time, he would accept nothing less.

"Yes, Louis," he admits, and somehow it feels nothing at all like defeat. "Your point is made."