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Louis has always had a bad habit.
He likes being vicious. He likes slapping where it’ll sting the hardest. He likes biting where the gristle is. In his human life, he felt whipped around by the wind, the best pawn on the chess board. Wait your turn, Louis du Lac, white plays first.
That’s all different now. It’s been long enough since he was weak that he hardly remembers it, but his body has never forgotten how to fight for control.
With Armand, that control had been easily won. His Arun took direction well, offered no resistance. Armand smiled at each barbed word Louis taunted him with. Armand leaned into a tight grip until Louis’ claws were forced to perforate his clean, smooth skin.
Sometimes it felt good, a headrush of total power. But often, it felt a bit too much like Louis was nothing but one of those bad men he’d known as a mortal, and his lover was nothing more than a victim who’d learned it was easiest not to fight. Some nights, he cried while Armand smiled beatifically up at him, something broken behind his eyes. Like Louis was Armand’s punishment, helping him purify himself of sin.
Right now, Louis doesn’t feel like the righteous anger of God raining down on an accepting sinner. Right now, Louis’ domination feels hard-won.
He’s riding a dick that is familiar enough to feel like home and large enough to feel like it’s carving out a new space inside him anyway. The dick is attached to Lestat de Lioncourt, who is chained to the coffin, and being very ungrateful for his excellent view of Louis’ back, of Louis’ hips as they rise and fall.
“Please, please, mon cher– ah! Allow me to, oh, to gaze upon your beautiful face–”
Louis looks briefly over his shoulder, giving Lestat the tease of his profile and nothing more.
“I said no, Lestat. You take what I give you, hm?”
Lestat groans, hands twitching in his restraints, metal pulling taut against skin. “Yes, yes, forgive me, mon Louis–”
Louis stops moving. Lestat whines, a crazy sound from the back of his throat, like a dumb dog pulling at its leash. His knees bend as if that’ll give him any leverage.
“Pourquoi, why did you stop–?” He breaks off, panting. Good.
“You said Louis. Who’s Louis, huh?”
“You, mon cher, my lover.”
“You ain’t earned my name, yet. You wanna call me somethin’, you gotta call me something respectful. Got that?”
“Oui, Monsieur du Lac, please!”
Lestat writhes. It’s not dignified at all, none of his calculated, sexy swagger, just pure desperation. It’s delicious. Louis sits in his wanting for a moment.
And then, because after a certain point he’s just punishing himself, he starts to move again. Fuck, but Lestat feels good inside him. Louis had almost forgotten. Most lovers he’d had over the years hadn’t understood this balance: to take the position of the inferior, and still be the one in charge. To turn the dynamic on its head.
So many men were simplistic enough to think that if they were the one shoving their dick inside something, they owned that thing. So Louis had played into it, instead of bothering to correct it. All that to say: Louis missed bottoming. And right now he feels really, really good.
The sounds from the vampire beneath him are growing increasingly frantic, but Louis pays that no mind. Lestat knows he isn’t allowed to come until Louis has gotten his fill. He won’t even bother begging for it, if he knows what’s good for him.
He closes his eyes, arches his back until his face points up at the ceiling, single-mindedly chasing after that perfect sensation. He finds the right angle to make sparks shoot from the base of his spine each time he bears down. He clenches around Lestat, just to be an asshole.
He leans his weight back onto a palm splayed across Lestat’s trim waist in a way that would make breathing difficult, were breathing necessary. As it is, Lestat’s words trail off gaspingly. Louis licks his other palm to stroke his own cock, amplifying his already all-consuming pleasure.
Lestat sobs falteringly beneath him, abs shaking with tension.
“Please, allow me to– I can bring you, ah, sss-such pleasure, do not–”
“Shut up, Lestat,” he says bitingly, between moans. A hiss of pleasure from his lover at being told what to do, a grating clench of teeth in an attempt to hold back his typical barrage of pleas and praises.
It is the overwhelming feeling of Lestat inside and under him, struggling to obey this most demeaning command, that pushes Louis over the edge.
When his ears are done ringing and the spots in his vision clear up, he becomes aware of Lestat inside him, still hard, fists pulling at the handcuffs hard enough to strain at the loop of metal they attach to. Amazingly, he’s holding himself back enough not to break free entirely, devoted to upholding the illusion.
“Hmm, that was good, Lestat,” hums Louis, in the voice of a man who’s gotten his rocks off and is ready to roll over in bed and leave his wife frustrated.
“I am so grateful to bring you to ecstacy, I am devoted to your enjoyment, cher, it is the worthiest service I am capable of–”
“Hush, Lestat, you don’t gotta beg. I’ll let you get off.” He makes no effort to move, nor to free Lestat from his chains.
Lestat gasps and begins to roll his hips up into Louis, shaking with the effort. After a few unsatisfying, weak thrusts, Louis affects a bored tone.
He asks, “Could you get me a cigarette? I need somethin’ to occupy myself with while you… finish up.”
A half-empty pack of cigarettes propel into his outstretched hand from across the room. Louis waits for Lestat to light it for him, then takes a long drag and a longer exhale. Smoking doesn’t do much for vampires, but it warms Louis a bit. The memory of nicotine floods through him.
Louis lets Lestat attempt some truly pitiable almost-fucking before he deigns to help out, grinding back onto his lover passively. The stimulation is surely inadequate, but Lestat is decent at making ‘not enough’ work for him, and besides, he’s so wound up… it doesn’t take long before he’s shaking apart and sobbing Louis’ name.
Louis lets him recover a bit, then says, “You know, I could punish you for saying my name when I told you not to.”
“Ah, oui, do as you please to me. I shall suffer it with love,” speaks Lestat’s voice, a bit floaty in the afterglow.
Lestat, for all his self-flagellation over the past however many decades, doesn’t actually like pain. Louis feigns as if to put the cigarette out on his thigh just to hear Lestat’s heart beat faster. He allows it to get close enough to singe a few hairs, then draws it back, snubbing it out on the inside of the coffin.
He does it less for his own possessive urges, and more for Lestat’s neverending desire to be possessed. Louis wishes he could mark Lestat up, cover him in hickies. The coffin is the next best thing, close enough to his lover’s heart to allow him to feel that Louis has laid claim to him.
Lestat moans softly, overcome. One foot twitches charmingly before falling still.
“My Saint Louis is so merciful. Thank you, mon amour.”
“Of course, Lestat.”
Louis winces as he pulls off of Lestat, mourning the feeling of fullness. He wipes the bloody spend off his lover’s abdomen, as well as his own hands. He unlocks the chains on Lestat’s wrists and ankles. He cleans himself perfunctorily before tossing the washcloth aside and lying beside Lestat in his coffin, now face-to-face.
“Hello, Lestat.”
Lestat sighs contentedly. It’s a real headrush, looking in his lover’s eyes. Louis finds adoration in them, a worship and devotion that runs so deep Louis can’t believe he ever missed it. He considers that, in fact, he didn’t miss it– it simply didn’t used to be there.
There was a time when Lestat was the suave one among them, sweeping into Louis’ life with money and charm and the perfect words to make him crumble. There was a time when Lestat was his undoing. There was a time when Louis had no control over Lestat.
Lestat, of course, still holds some power over him. Louis has never been able to control his attraction to this beast in his bed. If Lestat was interested in wielding that power, Louis would be helpless to it, as always. But at some point in their long, long history, Lestat decided to give himself over. He wears the handle of the leash around his neck, now, while Louis holds it firmly by the collar he himself used to wear.
That’s it: Lestat’s submission belongs entirely to Louis. He does not peddle it to every lover he takes, waiting for the one that can whip him hard enough. He gives himself entirely to Louis alone: not a masochist, but accepting of punishment regardless. Taking whatever Louis is inclined to give.
“Mon Louis… you are so beautiful. So incredible. It is an honour to succumb to you.”
Lestat’s brain seems to have finished leaking out of his ears, and now his speech is returned to its previous eloquence. He is endlessly full of praiseful poetry for Louis.
“Ton Louis, huh? Am I yours? I think,” Louis says softly, gently, “that you’re my Lestat now.”
“Oui, Louis,” is Lestat's breathless reply. He cups Louis’ face in his hands and steals his lips in a kiss. “Je suis le tien. I am yours, always.”
“Good, baby. I love you.”
“And I you, chéri. Pour toujours.”
The sun will rise soon. Louis pulls the lid of the coffin over them both and rolls onto his side, waiting for Lestat’s strong arms to wrap around him. A simple creature comfort, to fall asleep in the arms of one you love. As he drifts off, Louis imagines Lestat as a fierce guard dog coming to heel at his command.
So he’s a bit of a control freak, who cares? Lestat isn’t complaining. Their hearts beat together, synchronized as ever, as the sun pulls them down, down, down into a deep rest.