Work Text:
It would figure, based on their track record, that eventually they would end up back in the same sorta house with the same habits, like clockwork. Damaged. To expand upon it, Lestat feeds his food shitty French boxed wine out of the fridge when he feels self-hating enough to get wasted, and Louis watches him do all of this out of one eye while reading his latest whatever. And Louis, ever suffering and withdrawing, withholds.
It happens finally, the fucking, one night when they’re drunk enough on hot fresh meat boy-off-the-street since Lestat has been getting into predating on DJ’s and almost-barely convincing Louis to suck on men who wear vintage and listen to harsh noise. Lestat hates all of them, and this gets him off. Louis knows the score. Lestat had brought the most recent one home around midnight, early for the clubbers he’s been obsessed with picking up since they’ve gotten back together. Louis has been holding out on him now for all six months of their reunion. Like, he wants him to be so desperate he cries when they do it for the first time. Hundred years apart. He’s holding out but in a sexy way, been-to-therapy way. He’s happy to watch as Lestat parades around the house in nothing but a forest-green satin robe. Antique twenties piece he’s never gotten rid of. If only the instagram chicks could see Lestat’s closet. Or just naked, to and from the shower or the bath, cigarettes dangling from lips he’s bitten himself just to cause a scene.
So, it goes like this: embarrassment in the kitchen, Lestat kissing this new guy on the mouth and biting his lip dangerously. Louis ignores, as per. All of this is decadently lit with pink, as Lestat has been absolutely over the moon for these goddamn Wolf & Badger Victorian floor lamps that are “back in style, Louis, remember we pick these out for our home, in the tens, so chic.” Even has them in the kitchen. They’re living in this fucking London house, Louis has barely taken the time to wonder about it. Certain it was chosen at random out of hundreds of properties Lestat has around the globe. Whatever.
Lestat is showing his ass like purposely, as he pushes this guy up against the counter. Pushing it out towards Louis, putting on a proper show. The box of wine sits innocently on the counter alongside the Crate & Barrel two-tone gold cocktail glasses “how chic, Louis, mon coeur, shall we get zem for zee London Place?”
Lestat is addicted to shopping in his old age. Instagram isn’t helping. Louis doesn’t give a shit.
Anyways- against the pink marble countertop. Lestat moans performatively into this guy’s mouth and spreads his legs further. Louis knows well enough that he’s starved for intimacy but frankly enjoys withholding as Lestat once deserved to die and Louis so thoughtfully spared him. Quite honestly, it gets him undeniably hard how Lestat begs him and he refuses. Somenight he’ll fuck him. Maybe even tonight, if Lestat is good enough. In the meantime, Louis enjoys the show. Lestat pulls away like he’s a maiden and looks back at Louis, cheeks flushed with whatever remnants from his morning snack. He does drink it frozen, or from a willing participant off the street. But he hasn’t gotten over the thrill of an extravagant kill. Never ever will. Louis is used to this despite all the years apart but still wants to keep Lestat guessing and begging. Tale as old as time, sexy as Louis can imagine it.
Louis continues to read. He’s old enough that he doesn’t even have to pretend, thank-you-very-much. The words are being understood and absorbed. Lestat whispers something into wet blanket in a beanie’s ear, strokes across his chest with a precious vascular and red-nailed hand. Two rings, emerald on the pinky and diamond on the middle. Gorgeous. Louis continues his read, something random actually from one of the seven pristinely placed bookshelves Lestat has stocked whorishly with anything Louis could ever want. Whore. Louis blinks, looks back up at the ill-advised couple at the counter. Lestat is pouring River or Argyle more wine. Cheap French boxed wine. Lestat keeps shelves of this in the second fridge and bottles in the third fridge. Louis hasn’t had a reason to open a single fridge since he’s moved in.
“My Louis, 'e pretends not to notice or care. But ‘e is watching, I can see ‘e likes it, non? Darling, you like?”
Louis always ignores being summoned. He continues his chapter, and Lestat giggles and it’s genuine. Like he is high on the idea that maybe tonight, of all nights, Louis will put out. Louis is still on the fence. Vinyl collector has yet to say anything interesting or of use. Lestat guides him to the couch (antique) across from Louis’ preferred (1990’s vintage) armchair. The armchair is ugly as sin, as Lestat keeps insisting, but he does say it in a way like he loves Louis. Romantic. They’re whispering and whatever, Louis can catch snippets of boring-ass monologue from this boy’s mind. Immediately shelves it as dreck.
Lestat is hot tonight, has adopted a real twenty-first century goth kinda style that Louis can’t help but enjoy both publicly with his eyes and privately with his dick. He’s always unbuttoning button-ups down so low it’s shameful and wearing black wide-leg pants or some shit so Louis can’t see the knees he knows are red with flush and covered in wiry strawberry blond hair. Irresistible. But he has resisted. Maybe until tonight. He’s drooling a bit with the idea of Lestat’s fat ass. Nearly half a year back with this skank and this is what it’s come to. He’s always barefoot, making Louis drool even for his toes. Pink and cold on the hardwood floors. Painted red or black.
It’s been a bit awkward trying to get used to each other again. Lestat high strung as always, desperate for affection, has done nothing with this but drive Louis insane- always wanting love and to be not forgiven but perhaps absolved via getting fucked hard or even whipped or caned, ass always out and perky. It’s been some kind of departure from their old ways, Lestat always having been obsessed with control and Louis being desperate for validation and love and anykind of touching. Now, Lestat will spend hours waxing poetic on how he is so grateful for Louis to take him back or whatever, only to receive nothing in return. And he obviously likes it. Wants to be degraded. Louis is foaming at the mouth wanting to give him exactly what he wants. He won’t, until he snaps. He’s coming close, but six months for a vampire is like one day for a mortal. Or something.
Beanie baby is laughing at some joke Lestat’s made, and Louis can feel Lestat’s eyes on him. This has happened hundreds of times before. Lestat has given up on women just to spend all of his time making Louis jealous and horny. Knows Louis is just straight gay and would only get pissed at seeing chicks lounging on the furniture, not horny. Louis bets he misses eating pussy. Just another thing he’s happy to deny Lestat as he goes through his period of absolution. Lestat lounges across the couch like a whore. Louis bets he wishes Louis would call him one in bed.
In all honesty, Louis is half-hard. Lestat is on one, touching himself as well as his new friend with the expiration date. Running his pretty hands over his own chest, raggedy black t-shirt under black button-up, his pink pale skin looking cold and perfect and sickly. God- Louis looks up for half a second to watch the two of them entwine against the green velvet pillows. Lestat’s boytoy is playing it cool, obviously wanting to impress the seemingly strange and super duper rich couple with some kinda fucked up cuckolding kink. Lestat is loving it like always. His dick is hard and Louis can’t help but look over at it.
But despite all of this deranged theater, Lestat still needs to push the envelope and make Louis damned and crazy, like from the beginning. He wraps a loose hand around baby on the couch’s throat, his strange beat-up graphic tee rucked up at his hairy pale stomach. Louis watches out of the corner of his eye, and the meat’s throat clicks as he swallows and then moans, eyes rolling back into his head as Lestat cups his bulge with one gaudy Joan Crawford witch hand. Louis’ mouth fills with what he isn’t saying and isn’t allowing himself. Lestat is just sitting so pretty and weird, mascara running a little bit and all of his straight white Francophone teeth biting the inside of his mouth so his cheekbones pop. Expansive decadence and deepening scar at the edge of his mouth, Louis wants him. Is almost dripping with it.
He feels nauseous for a moment, like he could gag up a blood clot à la Lestat poisoned and dying on the floor of their old place right in front of God and Louis and Claudia, cold and cunt as hell, glaring down at him as she debased him to the ground of the devil’s green rotting Earth. But really it’s because his dick has gotten so hard so quick at the look of Lestat’s dry curls bouncing as he leans back into Doc Martens’ mouth, tongue first, pink and cold and wet. Damn. Someone get him some conditioner, the kind for fine silken blond baby hair. Louis would wash it, get it curling up into tight sweet ringlets he could tug on so Lestat would cry blood into the pillowcase. White satin. They sleep together every night in a coffin and still Louis refuses Lestat’s dick. Or any of his holes. Lestat has never ever cared for his hair properly. Just keeps it in a fuzzy ring-letted halo above his head. Louis’ dick twitches. Lestat strips his shirts as mismatched socks whines.
Lestat is so cut, like he was starving when he was turned. Louis knows he was. His rounded shoulders and achingly tight stomach, le petit waist. Louis does long to lick all across it, wants to douse him in wine-soaked blood like mortals do champagne or whipped cream and eat him right up. But- withholding. Withholding is sexy. Lestat is miserable with it, performatively jerking off in the other room loudly so Louis wants him.
Tonight might be the night.
Lestat finally, fucking finally asshole, bites into the neck of the dweeb right as he has his fingers in Lestat’s fly and is touching his cock, a piece of meat Louis has been desperate to consume for months and months, hot and pink. He drains him so quickly Louis can tell he doesn’t even know he is going to die, Lestat groaning performatively and oh-so fake. Louis’ stomach growls. His thighs hum with arousal and Lestat drops the body on the floor, has a hand down his pants before Louis can look away.
He unbuttons and unzips with his other hand, like he couldn’t wait to get off before freeing himself from his clothes, too horny. Louis’ eyes water, red against the pretty picture of Lestat sitting like a princess, dick in hand.
“Louis, please, I want-”
“Shut your mouth, baby.”
Hot tears drip down Lestat’s porcelain cheeks. He’s so pretty when he cries, and he does it constantly. How lucky is Louis. He complies, biting his bottom lip, fanged so that blood drips down his throat and quickly to a perky little pink nipple. He isn’t real. He spent thirty years domming Louis into oblivion and now it’s Louis’ reluctant (not) turn.
“Louis-”
“I said, shut your mouth. If you want my dick, you’ll be good. So shut your mouth.”
Lestat is immediately shut up and seated properly. Dick still hard and dripping now. What a darling. Louis keeps reading. He hasn’t finished his chapter, and actually, it’s getting good. Why should he stop now, after all Lestat owes him? It would be silly, and besides, Lestat is so desperately losing his mind like a Barbie doll across from Louis. Whining and pretending he doesn’t care. He’s biting his lip so hard the tears keep coming. Thankfully he’s drained the loser petrifying down on the hardwood floors. Plenty to go around tonight. Lestat is full to the brim. Louis is recently fed enough, a point of contention as always, forever.
Lestat is so quiet about it, a good baby for Louis like Louis wants him to be. At this point, Louis is immediately bored of the status quo of the past six months, desperately wanting to be able to fuck Lestat as nasty as he wants it if only for a break in the action of his own cruelty for sport.
“You know what, baby?” Louis asks. Lestat looks up so quickly Louis can hear his neck snap, not really but really, attentive and perfect and so ready to be bad. “Alright. Get over here, on your knees.”
Lestat is over, on the floor in front of Louis in a half second. His mouth is hanging open like he can’t summon the strength to shut it, mesmerized. Louis loves that, sticks a finger in there so Lestat immediately sucks down on it. Cold pink tongue and perfect pink lips, eyes shut and smooth dainty eyelids and pink lashes gorgeous.
“Yeah, sweetheart.” Lestat groans long at Louis’ whisper. “You’re perfect, waiting so long. Now you’re gonna get it.”
More tears escape Lestat’s soft lashes. Louis encourages his eyes open, finally does set his book down, bent at the spine so tomorrow he can keep reading in the early hours of the night. Hopefully with Lestat languishing between his thighs like Marie Antoinette. Too soon? Never fully beheaded, but if Louis had been able to keep his pretty mouth with him for that next seventy years without him he wouldn’t have complained.
“Louis, please- let me-” Lestat says. Around Louis’ thumb.
“Alright. Up you get. To bed.”
They still have the habit of keeping a king bed in the bedroom and, Lestat dutifully washes the sheets once a week so that they are always fresh even if he isn’t getting any. Darling. So desperate Louis knows he deserves it now, after all his waiting.
Louis pushes him hard down on the bed, like Lestat could have likely pushed back but would never ever, so longing to just fall to Louis’ wishes and be perfect for him- on his front, ass tensing as Louis crawls up to him from behind.
“You’re mine, you know?” Louis says. Lestat nods frantically against the pillow, hair so red against the white of the sheets. They aren’t his color- making him seem flushed and splotchy with all he has consumed in the past day. Louis loves it. Lestat wiggles down shyly, and Louis lands a harsh slap on his right cheek. Lestat gives the proper cry Louis was looking for, encouraging him to land more on him. “All mine.”
Lestat takes the spanking, pushing his ass up into Louis’ hands, whining and moaning high-pitched. Louis would hate him for it but it isn’t put-upon, all real and laid bare. His pink fingers and red knuckles grip the sheets. Louis slaps him red on both cheeks, as hard as he can to the point where Lestat is squealing like Louis has never ever heard him and still he cannot stop.
Finally, when his arm has tired of the repetition, Louis strokes Lestat to calm him. He keens up into him. Tries to turn over, but Louis refuses him, keeps him pushed down into the bed with one serious hand. Lestat whines, and Louis laughs at him a bit. He is so overdone with embarrassment and delirious want. His hair curls at his temples where he sweats out his dinner. More of that strawberry blond. What a whore.
“Alright. You want your ass ate?” Lestat cries out like he is already being fucked, so Louis takes that as the yes of the actual literal century and spreads his cheeks with eager, sharp claws. His hole is twitching and pink. Everything Louis has been dreaming about the past six months, and if he is honest decades before. If there is anything he deserves it is this. Lestat is begging him en français, Louis doesn’t bother listening beyond sinking his teeth into the softness of his cheeks. Perfectly covered with downy blond hair. Delicious. So wanted and pert and offered for the taking. Lestat arches his zero percent bodyfat back and tears at the sheets with his nails. Louis had just watched him patiently paint them with cheap polish. Louis gladly licks into him, the taste of him exactly as he remembers from needing to fuck him twice a day to keep him satisfied back when they were not so happily married. Heady and deep inside, Louis can’t get enough and wants to eat him out forever. The noises he makes are different from anything Louis has ever heard. They are drawn from somewhere Louis has created himself, a dark place of want and refusal.
“Louis- Louis, please. I want you inside, I need you in me I need it, I need it-”
Louis slaps him again, on his inner thigh. This time digging his nails into the soft flesh and pulling, so he bleeds. He brings his fingers up to Lestat’s hole to stuff them inside him, and Lestat accepts him greedily.
“That’s right, you’re perfect. Calm down. You’ll get it,” Louis says. Hot breath against his hole. He wishes he could stay here between Lestat’s cheeks forever, baby-doll soft. “Sugar. I love you, you’ll get it.”
It is the first time he’s said it to Lestat, probably ever, certainly in their newest arrangement. Lestat sobs so ugly. He weeps openly as Louis spits at his hole and opens him slowly, crying hard into the pillow so that the bed shakes with it.
Once Louis is finally inching inside him, Lestat turns his ruined face to him to look right into his eyes. That eternal gray speaking more than volumes of want and regret and everything beyond-ish. Totalitarian household to being driven deep into a human mattress. Clean sheets, never ever been fucked on before. Louis bottoms out to the sound of Lestat crying his name, it’s what he’s wanted all this time but somehow better for how long he’s made them wait. Lestat can take anything.
“Fuck. Taking it like you’re meant to. Sweetheart-”
Lestat chokes a sob, arches to get him deeper. Louis bites into his shoulder, laps up the blood that starts oozing slowly from the wound. Perfect Lestat with his cold skin. Achingly beautiful, Louis is drunk beyond with the taste of Lestat’s deranged kill earlier, and his own pristine taste Louis has yearned for for the years without him.
“Louis-”
“I have been remiss- without you, I haven’t been able to- I can’t live without you.”
Lestat sobs again, tears dripping down Louis’s face as he fucks into him with little to no decorum. Lestat is cold-hot inside and the perfect pretty princess outside, writhing against Louis’s chest and making the sweetest sounds. Louis bites him again, drinks from him until he can feel Lestat coming. It is a harsh wave, uncontrollable. Lestat reaches for and grips his hand as he comes, hiccuping into Louis’ ear. He clenches so tightly that Louis is pushed over the edge too, yanking Lestat’s hair and collapsing hard onto him.
“Louis Louis Louis Louis Louis-” Louis pulls out but immediately stuffs Lestat full of three fingers. For to make him scream, and he succeeds. Fucks him with them until he is begging Louis to stop. It’s all he needs to crawl up to him and take him tightly in his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“The hell are you sorry for now?” Lestat kisses him with a sloppy open mouth, fangs drawn and scraping down his tongue until blood drips down his chin. Louis pulls back. “Huh?”
“All of it- you hate me, I’m sorry,” Lestat is drunk, Louis realizes. Like, wasted, from the guy he brought home and additionally from the thorough dicking. “I’m sorry.”
“Baby-”
Lestat cuts him off again with his lips. It’s fine, he distracts and regains control, and Louis leans into him. Pulls back.
“Don’t hate me anymore. I need you.”
“You need to be fucked, is what you need. You’re a whore, I know. I’ll fuck you-” Lestat whines again, a sound he would have never given Louis back when they had first been together, certainly never after they had gotten back together, before Louis had killed him. Lestat is getting hard again, Louis can feel him. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll fuck you good forever.”
Lestat wraps an arm around Louis’ neck.
“Say it again.”
“Huh?”
“Louis,” Lestat says. Serious as the dead. Dead man downstairs, he himself dead in Louis’ arms. Eyes half-lidded.
“Alright. I love you.”