Work Text:
He was a pretty being—his Louis. Stubborn, but his beauty overshadowed any flaw in that personality of his that was melancholy and irritating but euphorically addictive. He wore sorrow and rage like a shield waiting to be broken into and shattered. And Lestat, the hopeless romantic that he was, broke every wall or shield that Louis built. He was besotted at the sight below him, intertwined at the hip. He was so warm. God, how much he enjoyed fucking Louis! As much as Louis pretended it was a pest and hid behind his piety and stubbornness, his reaction always told him otherwise. If Lestat didn’t know him at heart, he’d think Louis hated getting fucked. His arms and legs were sprawled on the bed like they were forcefully apart, as if he were caught in a sticky web and had no clue how to escape it. The sheets glued onto his body, he refused to let go and clung to them as he was ravaged below by the beast above him. An arm swung over his face, half covering it, either because of shame or habit. But he did not once look at the scene below him.
Lestat towered over him. Both of his forearms were next to Louis’s pretty little head. Louis' eyes remained on the corner of the bed, refusing to look at Lestat, perhaps because of shame. But Lestat paid no mind to it; he halted his hips and placed a kiss on Louis’s temple, then his ear, down his neck, and onto his sharp collarbone. The skin shuddered as he placed the damp kisses across his body.
Louis had always been eerily, delicately thin; he was blessed with a long, graceful neck that seemed too fragile. When his back arched, the bones in his rib cage and Lestat’s cock bulged beneath the skin. Lestat frowned; he thought he’d been feeding Louis well these last few days, but he looked the same as he had months before. As much as his possessive nature enjoyed the image of seeing his own cock through Louis’s abdomen, he also loathed it because Louis was harming himself. Lestat loves Louis. He’d never want Louis to be in pain or harm himself. The love he held for him was so profound that any violation of Louis’s well-being was like his own. Louis was his. They were woven together in sex, death, and life, and Lestat would refuse any other scenario. Without Louis, there was no Lestat, and without Lestat, there’d be no Louis.
“You’ve been skipping meals lately,” Lestat mumbled. His thumb brushed against Louis’s lips, parting them until the tip of his thumb touched Louis’s stubborn teeth—a grin formed on Lestat’s face, amused at the defiance.
“I know you love my fingers. You always end up sucking and drooling over them when I fuck you.” Lestat says in a gentle tone. Louis's teeth part slightly, but Lestat takes the opportunity to jam his fingers against his tongue. Louis’s lips pressed together, and he sucked on the fat digit desperately as if he could suck and drool hard enough that something would spill in his mouth. “Good.” Lestat breathed, slipping in two more fingers.
“You’re so beautiful, Louis. Stubbornly beautiful.” He whispered, leaning and pressing another soft kiss behind his ear.
He pulled his cock out of Louis slightly, moaning at the sudden sensation. Moans escaped from Louis’s mouth at the sudden shift inside of him. The tip of Lestat’s fat cock remained inside, still rigid and erect, leaking precum while being tightly held by Louis. Louis let out a short gasp when he felt cum drip down his inner thigh. Louis looks at the scene in front of him but shrugs off the urge to bend Louis' legs on the bed and fuck him like a dog; instead, he presses their bodies entirely together as if they were stitched into one.
The side of his head lies against Louis’s chest, Louis’s breathing has become gradual, and he patiently listens to the sound of his heart calming. It’s weirdly soothing, like a child listening to a lullaby or melody. Lestat could fall asleep to this every night if he could.
Louis’s hands brush against Lestat’s golden locks, the fingers intertwine with the hair, the first tender touch he’d receive from Louis. He groans at the sensation of Louis’s fingers brushing against his skull tenderly. He almost can’t believe it, turning up to gaze at Louis. Sorrow stares back at Lestat. The tears trickle down his narrow cheeks and stick to the bottom of his chin. Lestat becomes flaccid, his demeanor completely changing. He pulls out of Louis and crawls beside him, holding his head softly, leaning closer, as if it’d take away his anguish.
”Was I too rough?” His speech is frantic. “Louis.”
But Louis doesn’t respond. He can’t. Lestat wraps his arms around Louis’s frame, and Louis reluctantly caves his head onto Lestat’s collarbone. Lestat feels the warm tears drop onto his skin.
“Did I hurt you?” Lestat’s voice trembles as he asks.
Louis doesn’t respond.
Lestat is curled up in a ball, alone on the bed; the sheets are clean, he’s fully clothed, but he’s the one crying. His tears are red; they drip down his cheeks and stain the white sheets. The maids will have to get rid of them completely and replace them. The shame was eating him from the inside, an unsatiated pit forming within him, pulling his body and mind. He was going mad! Lestat was starving. The loneliness lingered on his back, touching every crevice of his being; it whispered into his ears to take him. To take his beloved Louis in such a vile, undignified way! He let out a sob, pulling the tips of his hair so hard he’s certain he ripped his scalp apart. But he was immortal, an ancient; it’d grow back in seconds if he wanted to. Lestat would break, burn, bend, and shatter and always regrow. This was what immortality was for. It was to endure the pain and temptation.
He bit his bottom lip hard, drawing blood, and let the taste linger on his tongue.
Beneath the bed and below the floorboards, Louis would awake to the light peeking through his curtains. Lestat listened to his mind; Louis' initial thoughts were on the brightness of the sun and how he wished night would remain forever.