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Lestat is fine.
Actually! He's never been better.
No really. He's thriving. Thriv-ing.
He's got piles of money, swings a big dick, and so many hot women with big tits and tight pussies throw themselves at him.
So, if his eye is twitching, it's not because Louis left him alone in their bed without a word two weeks ago. Again.
And if his lower lip is quivering, it's totally unrelated to the way Louis's changed his mobile number without telling him. Again.
His eyes are always this red by the way. Anyone that thinks they're bloodshot or wetter than usual obviously hasn't been graced with the opportunity to study his features so up-close before. His perpetually rimmed-pink waterlines have unequivocally, not-a-single-fucking thing to do with how Louis’d luxuriously cooed in his ear as they relaxed from their last orgasm about how he's missed Lestat so badly and that Lestat fills a hole inside him in more ways than one.
Unconnected. All of it!
So if someone asks him how he's 'doing' then he's going to say he's 'doing' fine, and people are going to believe him!
(And if they don't, then Lestat will change their minds! Because he can't have people flapping their gums around lying about how breezily he's 'doing.')
And if anyone asks why The Vampire Lestat’s performed a last-minute pop-up concert in Rome tonight, he will make sure they understand that it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact Louis's currently residing there for a fine art auction.
And if after his concert, anyone wonders why he's using his cloud gift to float around the Villa Borghese? Well. That's just something he does.
Should he somehow land on the balcony of Louis's luxury penthouse apartment?? Juste une coïncidence!
"Oh, I didn't know you were in Rome," Louis drawls slowly and fondly as Lestat sifts aside the wispy sheer curtains to pass through the already open French doors. So elegantly his delectable darling crooks one knee as the other leg splays out over the velvet ottoman. So casually regal he looks as he lounges on its matching, puffy chair, one fist curled to support his cheek. "Have you been here long?" he asks sweetly, taking a drag from a cigarette extended by a golden, lithe holder.
"I thought you quit," Lestat says instead, slowly making his way over to him. Involuntarily, he sucks in the toothpick he's suctioned between his own lips.
Louis blows some smoke from the side of his mouth, hiding a pleased smirk. "When in Rome, as they say," he shrugs.
Lestat's eyes swallow him: Louis's wearing a deliciously short satin black robe with his gorgeously supple brown thighs on display. His application of lotion gives a sheen over his stretched out leg in the low simmering light and a gleam in the crook of his propped up shin. He glows ethereally. The blaze of a flickering fire in the hearth glitter in Louis's jadeite eyes.
And Lestat is fine.
"You okay, Lestat?" Louis croons knowingly, tilts his head to the other side. He sits up straighter as though actually worried. "Hmm?"
Lestat could crumble to his knees in worship.
"Your heart's racing awful fast," Louis continues his prodding faux-concern. "You alright?"
Lestat could swallow his tongue. Instead he gruffs out the smartest possible answer: "You must share your new cell phone number."
Louis cocks his head again, a kittenish smile tipping his lips. "Why?"
"Because I need it." He stands his ground, shimmies his shoulders. Tosses his hair back like this is an easy, meaningless request.
Yes!
Lestat's not the one taking this so seriously. Louis is the one making it a big deal. Not Lestat.
"Sure," Louis supposes, lazily grabbing his phone from his side table. He taps his delicate fingers, oh such a melodious click-click with each graze over his screen. And Lestat hates his Louis's phone's face. How dare Louis be poking, touching, swiping his divine fingers' prints over it and not over Lestat's? He should explode that damnable device immediately for taking refuge in Louis's pockets when Lestat's hand cannot, for residing at Louis's beck and call when Lestat would most desperately do the same! Lestat's going to take his phone and gnash it between his teeth until an industrial clump of waste and wire spews from his mouth! He's going to combust it, yes, explode it for daring to have Louis obligated to shove a plug inside its receptacle so it can 'charge' when this very same Louis, for the past few weeks mind you, has not let Lestat do the very same --
A buzz jolts in Lestat's pocket.
"There you go," Louis says with a lilt of finality. He places the phone back on the side table, lifts his chin loftily.
Naturally, Lestat checks his phone's notifications. (He'd learned his lesson. (One time Louis had merely signed him up for some bot subscription, assuming that Lestat (correctly) wouldn't check his phone upon thinking Louis'd texted him.) His Louis can be so sneaky, so clever.) But, blaring on Lestat's home screen is an un-registered contact saying: "green corduroy velvet pants in summer? :)" Lestat thumbs at the unbelted loops of said trousers to lower them subtly, so his V-line is more prominent.
After a gulp, "That wasn't so hard was it?" is what Louis adds out loud. He eyes Lestat up and down again.
"Thank you," Lestat huffs out. He can show Louis hard! Rock hard! But, his voice...it's like there's waves of sand in his throat. He could snap the toothpick resting on the plush ridge of his lower lip in fucking half, so help him god.
They stare at each other.
"Was that all you needed?" Louis asks, wetting his lower lip. He blinks his doeful eyes so coquettishly, so nonchalantly. Unsaid: That's all you came here for? Why you threw a concert? Why you spent millions and millions for logistics and whatever just to have a measly excuse to come ask me for my number?
Lestat clenches his fist. He nods his head once.
Louis raises a brow, rubs his darling index finger tip up and down over the lapel of his robe, just barely sneaks a glimpse of the fuzzy hair sprawling the exalted mounds of his warm breasts. "Alright. Have a good night, Lestat."
"Sweetest dreams, Louis," Lestat grits very kindly through his teeth. He pivots on his heel, jaw tight as he marches towards the balcony.
"Lestat?" Louis calls the moment his feet lift from the tiled stone. He drops back down immediately. "You still have your home back home?" What does he mean by this? Before he can open his mouth to ask for clarification, Louis continues, "I want to send you a postcard, but don't want it swamped up along with the rest of your fanmail. So is your shack in New Orleans serving as a good address still?"
"You want to send me a postcard?" Lestat asks, each word heavily weighing on his tongue.
"Do you not want me to?" Louis volleys back instead. As though put upon by Lestat's confusion. But then a cruel smile emerges over his face, the one that reminds Lestat of his mother-in-law. "Oh, sorry. I forgot. You don't like to keep souvenirs."
A snarl curls in Lestat's lips as the words' context registers. His devastating, beautiful one. "Then don't send me one," Lestat slowly says back. "I don't want one anyway!" he insists, laughing. Cackling a sharp, hurt bubble up from his lungs. "If you send me one, I'll burn it! I'll rip it to shreds. I'll use it as a napkin to wipe my mouth when I drain the life of some fucking--"
"Oh, you poor thing," Louis tuts, softening. And because Lestat knows Louis will never beckon him nearer with a finger, will never ask Lestat to come closer, will never initiate any intimate contact, Lestat uses his preternatural speed to land before Louis's reclining figure, kneeling at his side. "You’ve missed me?"
"Oui," Lestat breaths out pitifully, rubbing his cheek against Louis's thigh.
Louis's already plucked his toothpick from his mouth's tight grip. He inspects it loftily. "Brought some wood stakes in here, hmm? You meant to kill me?" he teases, breaking it and tossing it aside.
"If anything," Lestat insists, "they'd be a makeshift Cupid's arrow I'd plunge into your heart. But, really, it's just a part of my look."
Louis snorts. "Your look?"
"Yes, my look," Lestat scoffs.
"So you look like this on purpose," Louis asks, a vinegary taste to his tone. Nevertheless, he pets Lestat's hair.
"Yes," Lestat insists sincerely. "It's a lot of effort maintaining this image."
"Your hair is crunchy," Louis pouts. "All your curls are so forced." He plucks at one tendrils, tugs it straight to test its give. He could probably snap the strands in half; Lestat's fried his hair to death. Too much product. But! Louis's running his fingers through his hair, so who's the real winner here? Maybe this was his plan all along, actually! Haha! Checkmate!
"Endless hours of production and curation, it takes to look this trashy," Lestat recites. He's not passed media-training, but he's not failed it either. "You think I roll out of bed looking this perfectly sleazy?"
A tiny smile plucks the corner of Louis's mouth. "I've seen you wake up many times," he matter-of-factly recalls, his nails raking over his scalp softly with the crispy breakage of his hair accompanying each stroke. "You always looked like a lion stretching, yawning from his slumber."
"Watching you rise for but one morning was more astounding to me than a century's worth of sunrises," Lestat tells him back, the words spilling from him. He inhales the decadent fragrance surrounding him: wisps of the Rome breeze, Louis's grapefruit and basil lotion layered on top of his natural musk, and the burning lavender and sage candles Louis's littered around the room. God, he's drunk just from one whiff. He sniffs at his crotch, eyes rolling back. With glazing eyes, he beseeches his cruel darling, "Please?"
Louis scritches behind his ear, cooing, "I know, I know," as Lestat nuzzles his nose into the crevice of his thigh, grunting and hungry.
"Darling," Lestat heaves. With his nose, he pushes up the robe's hem so he may graze his mouth over the divine fields of wiry hair sprouting gorgeously from Louis's pubic bone.
"Tell me why you came to Rome," Louis asserts thickly. Swallowing on the last word. "Why you'd really've come here."
Lestat laves his tongue over his Louis's happy trail, nips at his navel. "I came here for you."
"To do what?" Louis gasps as Lestat's tongue dips into the cubby of his belly-button.
"I wanted your phone number."
"And nothing else?"
"I wanted," and Lestat pauses, kisses at the his lower belly, the soft pudge where it would expand during a pregnancy. "I wanted to see you."
"And?"
"Louis," Lestat exasperates. "You used to hate my vulgarity."
"Well, I want to hear it now." Louis pets at the back of his neck, toys with one sweaty curl.
"I came here because I wanted to fuck you until you cried and creamed on my cock, and then I wanted to breed you hard and have myself leak from deep inside you," Lestat tells him honestly, easily, locking their eyes.
Louis strokes his jaw, his thumbnail scratches at where it meets his neck. "Okay," he decides, rolling his shoulders. He then flaps his wrist before Lestat. "Help me up?"
No, that won't do! Lestat instead bundles his Louis into his arms and carries him in a cradle, using his nose to direct him towards the bedroom by seeking out Louis's sleepy scent on bedsheets.
"Let me down," Louis insists into his ear as he kicks the bedroom door behind him. Dutifully he does, but his brow raises. Does Louis not want to fuck in the bed? Against the wall, maybe? On the soft fluffy rug? Or in the shower? he considers as Louis beelines to the en suite bathroom.
"Pull down the sheets," Louis calls out as he rifles through what must be his toiletry kit.
Lestat tosses away all the fancy decorative pillows and excessive quilts until there's but a cotton sheet left tucked up into the corner. That will work. He unfolds it from its tight creases then undresses. It used to be Louis that would fix their marital bed to his liking before sex; would be Louis waiting Lestat's becoming ravishing while demurely settled beneath their covers after dispatching Lestat to a task to ease his mind like to lock their front door (when Lestat really was all the protection they'd need), and would fuss about being cold if Lestat yanked their comforter away while mounting him.
After cozying himself under the single sheet, he plucks a hairband from his wrist and ties his hair back.
Louis returns from the bathroom, a makeup wipe in his hand. He sits on the edge of the bed beside Lestat's reclining self. "I don't want the great 'Vampire Lestat' as my company. I want the father of my child in my bed." He swipes the wet cloth over Lestat's cheek, inspects the smudge of glitter and kohl he's smeared off. "Besides," he adds. "Don't need you to ruin these nice pillowcases." Then he tuts and pulls Lestat's hair tie back from his mane and flings it across the room.
Lestat might sprain his tongue.
In fact, he's getting the ends of his hair wet with what he's slobbered over Louis's hole and down his legs.
He sucks Louis off, Louis uncharacteristically begging him to suck him off, give him some face, oh that's so nice.
With his wide jaw and mouth, it would be no trouble to deepthroat his Louis, but he does not such thing. He must keep his voice in tact, unsullied! He more than makes up for it, enthusiastically licking up and down the veins of his shaft, kissing the wet slit on his cock's head, tucking the tip of his tongue beneath the hood of his foreskin to wet the sensitive skin there. He takes Louis's cock, has his wet tip smear over his lips like a gloss before trilling Lestat's lips with it.
Louis cums on his tongue, crying into a high, sweet note Lestat's baritone could never reach. In the back of his mind, as he regards his work and how well he's readied Louis's sweet tight hole into a sloppy, prodded readiness, he wonders if he could convince Louis one day to come to a recording session to have such delicious notes committed for posterity. But just as quickly, he bats that idea away. No, no! No only Lestat may ever hear these sounds, and only if he earns this noises of pleasure can Lestat hear them outside of the replaying echoes of his memory. There's no denying Louis's orgasmic panting is an ear-worm, constantly replayed on loop in Lestat's mind, but no it's not worth the risk. Should such sweet sounds befall any other's ears?
"Honey." Louis strokes back his hair, his eyes dilated wide and face pleased as punch, and then thumbs at the spit drooling from his mouth.
Lestat catches his breath; he'd forgot he'd been holding it. And oh, on his tongue? Oh, is this honey? Nectar dribbling from his lips? Is that what Louis's given him? And instead of dipping his fingers into the divine collection that's dribbled from Lestat's chin to pool on his stomach, no, instead of whisking the pads of his index finger to gather his divinity to suck into his own divine mouth, so magnanimously Louis presses his rich salty finger into Lestat's mouth. Oh yes, his darling has learned well from him, yes, if he's insisting Lestat finish his meal, lick his plate clean, drink down to the last drop. Follow your own example, non?
Louis wants it on his back.
Lestat gallops into him, balls bruising his perineum. Despite the barbaric, rough thrusting Lestat delivers into him, Louis clutches close so tenderly, winds his fingers through his nail-combed-soft hair, and kisses his forehead.
And Louis gasps, "Ride me, ride me. Fucking ride me," deliriously as he quivers against the satin sheets, head tossed aside. "Fucking mount me and breed me raw."
"Yes," Lestat agrees. That's all his brain can calibrate to say. "Yes."
Louis sniffles against Lestat's neck before thrashing his head to the side. "Tell me you don't fuck anyone else like this."
It's like a cold bucket of water's dumped onto Lestat's balls, how they tighten then pulse inside Louis. In a good and bad way. "What if I do?" What does it matter to Louis how he fucks anyone else? If Louis's not committed to him--
"And when you fuck them, is this," and he twists the wedding band Lestat's donning meanly. "Thing on you, when you do?"
"You want to know this now?" Lestat groans.
Louis's nostrils flare at Lestat's tone, the answer itself in Lestat's refusal to answer.
No. No they shouldn't be getting mad at each other. Not right now.
Lestat seeks to make it up to Louis; he tickles kisses up his jawline, blows raspberries on his cheeks until Louis's scrunching his nose in delight, reprieved from his performative petulance.
The bed starts to creak.
Louis whimpers out, "I'm getting so wet," while Lestat sucks at his neck. He yanks Lestat's hand and positions his paw to stroke over the leaking dribbles of precum spurting from the tip of his spent cock. "When you touch me like this it makes me..." and Louis trails off, biting his lower lip.
Lestat won't have that! After a century of withholding, of demure polite reverly, of hiding behind excuses of resentment -- "Tell me," Lestat growls. "Say it."
Louis shakes his head. "No. I can't."
"Say it now," Lestat demands. Louis clearly dislikes his mean tone, how his eyebrows lower. "Oh, my pretty baby," he tries again, a tinge of pleading edging his voice. "I make you 'what?'"
Louis's face scrunches up, and he brings up a hand to hide his face as he whines out, "Makes me wanna cum on your cock, honey." Lestat softens and snarls at this, bats Louis's hands away from his face while settling closer to croon in his ear sweet nothings because what a delightful revelation! And so self-consciously, Louis slurs against his ear, "Do I make you feel this nice...still?"
Lestat lunges for his mouth, wants to suck out any doubt from Louis's soul via his breath because how dare Louis question his own allure? Challenge his inherent sexiness? Is Lestat not making this clear enough, how terrifyingly desirable he finds Louis?
No, Lestat's not necessarily an eloquent lyricist, but surely all of the greats would stumble upon this ask: is there any romantic way for Lestat to ask Louis if he may please please please drain his balls inside him? To unleash thick warm loads into his Louis's hungry hole? May he pretty please cum inside him and then continue to rut into him until his thrusts churn his spend into a foam, a frothy cream?
"Darling," is all he grits out.
"Yeah, do it," Louis immediately understands. He wriggles his ass back invitingly, bites his lower lip.
"I'm cumming," Lestat says.
"I am too," Louis tells him eagerly, stripping his own cock with his fist. Lestat's tongue hangs out before he slurps it back in. "We're cumming."
"We're cumming? You're cumming? I'm cumming," Lestat grips Louis's hips up tighter to pulse deep into him. "Oh. Oh, love. Oh."
"Yeah," Louis sighs sweetly, releasing over his stomach. "Oh."
"Yeah," Lestat pants out before collapsing on top of Louis, spent.
When they regain their senses, Lestat rolls over onto his back and Louis tucks into his side, on his stomach.
"We're finally here," Louis says. He rubs his cheek against the pillow, smiling. "Rome, I mean. Just took us over a century."
Lestat rumbles deep, pleased. He rubs Louis's shoulder, kisses his temple. "Shall we hunt?" His ringtone blares in the pants he'd tossed somewhere across the room. He pays it no mind. "Sport from the Caffe Greco to the Spanish Steps?"
Louis shakes his head. "No," he refuses, just as he had refused in 1917. At least then, he was eating human then. Well...killing humans. Can they not share an aperitivo together, have some rich blood spray between their mouths before the Fontana di Trevi? "But why don't you fly me around the Coliseum? The ruins?" He looks up, locks their eyes together. "An exclusive sight-seeing tour?"
"Anything you want," Lestat promises. He rubs their noses together before sucking in Louis's lip between his.
His phone buzzes loudly again. Louis groans, rolls out of his embrace. "Go answer it, honey."
"It's nothing important," Lestat insists,
"But it could be Christine..." Louis supposes.
A shiver runs through Lestat. Yes. Only two beings in this world can instill the fear of God into Lestat: one immortal (Louis) and one mortal (Christine). Lestat hefts up from the bed and searches for his trousers.
On the last ring, fortunately, he answers Christine's call. "Pronto," he answers, heading out into the living room.
After a thorough chewing out from his lawyer-publicist-therapist-best-(mortal)-friend, Lestat hurries back into Louis's bedroom, gathering his clothes.
"What is it?" Louis asks, tucking an arm behind his head. "You gotta go?"
"I've two minutes exactly to arrive at a studio in Trastevere for an interview," Lestat says, hopping into his pants. "But tomorrow? I'll take you on a tour?"
"Yeah," Louis nods, and he flickers his eyes up and down, watching Lestat frantically redress. "Sorry I made you take off your--"
Lestat rounds over to him, captures his mouth into a kiss. "No, no. Nothing you do is wrong to me. I'll see you tomorrow night." And after another brief kiss he pledges sincerely, "I love you. I love you. All of my silly songs and all my most fanciful words quail in comparison to you. I love you." He kisses him again, departs him with a wet click. "I love you so much."
Meanly, fussily, Louis bats at him. "Don't say that like it's--" In the same tone he'd use when he'd complain about Lestat's infidelity during their years underground when Louis'd steadfastly denied him from his body. What did it matter to Louis then, how Lestat's keep himself sated? And why does Louis combat Lestat so readily when Lestat tries to vow his devotion? Round and around they go!
"I mean it," Lestat tells him. "Oh, why that face?" Louis scrunches his face sourly. Lestat would take his index fingers, lift up the frown of Louis's mouth into a smile, but he knows better. He wants Louis happy, not homicidal. He pecks him one last time. "You're my joy. I love you."
Louis regards him warily, blinking slowly, nodding indulgently. Swallowing, he turns his head on the pillow. "Go on, honey. Clock's ticking."
When he arrives at Louis's apartment the next evening, Louis is gone.
No note. No trace. Nothing.
Louis's disconnected his fucking number, too. Again.
And Lestat can't help himself, how this hurt arouses him. His cock fattens. God, how this turns him on.
And oh.
Hot.
His green eyed love abandoning him without a word.
So much like his mother.
(They'd get along if they'd finally meet.)
Louis's left him. Changed his number. Probably was still dripping Lestat's cum down his thighs as he crawled into whatever hired discreet black SUV would take him to FCO. Or wherever else he has some FBO harboring his private jet to whisk him away like he'd been some locked-away princess flying away on the back of some mighty, fire-breathing dragon to safety. Without a dashing prince to settle behind and guide them.
Fine!
This is okay.
Actually!
To prove he's truly unaffected by Louis's sudden betrayal, he jacks off in their shower. Back home, back then, Louis used to bitch at him endlessly for masturbating and 'wasting' his cum into his palm. He'd deprive Lestat of sex for days after, rolling over petulantly and saying, "Go fuck your fist, seeing it's tight enough for you clearly," or something along those lines.
So he bites his fist and back a sob as he releases splurts of red from his heartbroken cock, watches it swirl around the drain (woefully instead of Louis's hole or mouth), and then he crunches the rest of the fancy shampoo and body wash bottles littering the ledges of the shower's tiles to emptiness too.
After drying himself off, he crawls back into their cum-crusted bed. The wet splotches usually are in the middle, but last night they consummated on Louis's side. He sniffs Louis's pillow, debates whether he'll crawl below and suck their damp sheets between his mouth, filter their sweat and cum onto his tongue, have all of their tastes to himself. That's how it works right? Like if Louis came his pink bloody-cum wad onto a cloth napkin, yes, Lestat would suck it all right out until the cloth was clean.
He'd wring and twist it over his mouth and then drench his tonsils and throat with Louis's essence!
But he's mad at Louis.
And such nasty depravity would disgust Louis!
That's why Lestat tugs the sheet between his front teeth and suctions it deep. God, if Lestat could live off of Louis's cum and sweat instead of blood for the rest of time...yes how he'd prefer to have Louis as his source of strength, his sole sustenance. His Louis tastes so rich nowadays, so healthy, so diabolically heavy any extract of him settles in Lestat's belly.
After a week without Louis's touch, voice, or taste, Lestat's positively in withdrawals.
Louis's postcard has nothing but a glistening chapstick-pressed lip print. Lestat framed it. It would be a nice album cover, maybe.
Lestat sends the out-of-service number several dirty and/or mean texts out of spite. Let the Cloud witness his wrath, his overwhelming need!
Drumming his fingers over the piano, he demands his lust and fury translate itself onto the keyboard. This time, he won't write 'For Louis, my muse!' as a prelude. As a scribbled, desperate love note on the sleeve of a shellac letter. Louis knows this already. God, his infuriating Louis, his divine intervention, his delicious study, his wonderfully devastating blood-of-his-blood.
And yes. Lestat's writing Louis another song. A song demanding response.
Because.
Well.
Given their prior track record, a goading song's the safest bet to get Louis back in his good graces.
At least this time, it'll be him singing.
Lestat smirks as he presses the wide pad of his thumb over the 'send' arrow. His phone makes a delightful whoosh as it sends his dearest Louis's new number the final mastering of his most recent composition, 'Long Face.'
Minutes later, his text notification dings. Louis has kindly given him a 'thumbs-up' emoji.
His cock twitches in his pants. Oh, how he loves the chase.
Lestat is fine.