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It had been a gift. Their matrimony was routinely dotted with gifts, there needn’t be any occasion nor fanfare. The simple I was thinking of you sentiment that accompanied each offering was all that was necessary. It spoke in volumes.
Lestat’s gifts to Louis were, unsurprisingly, consistently more lavish and grand. The townhome, the Azalea, a never ending lineup of operas and plays and performances, the finest coffin, the finest jewelry, the most coveted of books.
Everything Lestat did was lavish and grand. Anything less would be unbecoming of him. He could not bear to idle and pass off small, practical tokens of his love, no, his bleeding heart was set to shower upon his Louis in excess and incessancy.
If tasked to do so, he would build Louis an altar, a shrine, he would kneel in prayer and offer tribute, but his Louis did not demand it. Lestat did that on his own accord.
Louis’ were more practical, perhaps even more thoughtful.
The robe had been a gift. It had caught Louis’ eye one evening in the import house window, fabrics brought across the Atlantic from Türkiye. The embroidery, it reminded him of the spun gold that curled around his lover’s ears. Luxurious.
The opulent satin reminded Louis of his husband’s eyes. Blue. Elegant. The cream trim, it invoked thoughts of Lestat’s pale skin, his soft hands, the broad shoulders that gave way to a broad chest, that gave way to a tight waistline, sculpted hip bones.
Louis had given it to him with little bravado. It had been wrapped modestly in the shop’s unassuming brown paper. The folds were bound with twine. A tag humbly dedicated with reverence “de LDPDL à LDL”. From Louis de Pointe du Lac, to Lestat de Lioncourt.
Their marital home had been quiet that night, and Louis had never told Lestat just how precious he found those moments. He loved dearly to have a fire crackling in their reading room, he loved to recline on their Parisian chaise longue with a book propped in his hands; a book Lestat had stocked to their shelf. For him.
Words often failed Louis. It was Lestat to wear his heart on his sleeve, it was Lestat that held no reservations in bearing his soul, shedding his tears. But Louis, he seldom could (or would) articulate the innermost crevices of his mind, the recesses of his love.
“Almost forgot,” Louis had said casually. He’d sat up a little, a thumb pinched between his book covers, saving his place.
Oftentimes, Lestat’s attention was overwhelming. He was, in Louis’ own words, a lot. That isn’t to say that’s a mark against him however, but it is of course one of many elephants in the room that crowd their sordid, resplendent romantic affair.
It surprised Louis none to look up and see that even though Lestat himself had a book in his hands (hands that could shield both covers and leave him wondering what it was he was reading in the first place), he had already been looking over. His gaze was intense. It made Louis feel seen, sometimes too seen, and sometimes, made him feel simultaneously small.
The firelight did wonders for the beholding pools of blue. Louis did not say so.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Lestat asked. He cocked his head slightly, attentively, eyes following every breath of Louis’, every movement, however minute.
“Hang on,” Louis told him. He folded a dog-ear at the top right corner of his page. He knew Lestat noticed, and hated that, but it was a habit he could not break.
Lestat did not chastise him for it. Louis could dog-ear every page in every book of his little library. In fact, Louis could flippantly toss every book right into their fireplace if it should please him, and Lestat would sit loyally, watching the pages crackle and burn, perhaps leaning a head against his lover’s shoulder. He would even enjoy the warmth the blazing paper would put out for them.
Yes, Louis could do anything that would please him, and how thoughtful it would be that even in destruction, his Louis would provide a fire to keep them warm!
Rising from the chaise longue, Louis stood and left the room. Lestat resisted the urge to follow.
He went to their bedroom, and from his wardrobe, tucked between some folded nightclothes, Louis retrieved the little package.
He returned to their reading room, and quite casually presented it to Lestat.
“Saw this the other day,” Louis said, and offered a little smile.
Oh, how beautiful his Louis was when he smiled.
Lestat rose to his feet immediately, and his eyes grew wondrous and soft, darting across the flat faces and carefully taped corners, taking the wrapped gift and handling it very gently as if he had been passed a priceless artifact.
He turned it over in his hands, noticing the tag.
His Louis had dedicated it to him? An angel. What a divine creature he was, what a generous and merciful being, dedicating a token of affection! To him! Personally!
“Ain’t much,” Louis shrugged, but he couldn’t help feeling his heartstrings tugged in several directions seeing the look on Lestat’s face, like that little brown package was instead the keys to the city of Paris.
“For me?” Lestat asked, blinking. Louis watched his eyelashes flutter. He’d half expected his counterpart to start to cry. It would have surprised him none.
“‘Course.”
Excitedly, but still with great care, Lestat tore back the paper, revealing the robe. He had taken a small gasp, thumbs rubbing up and over the fabric, taking in the fine texture.
“It’s beautiful,” Lestat told him softly, and Louis smiled, chuckled some, then leaned over to give him a kiss.
“You gon’ look beautiful in it iffen you put it on,” He hummed, low, soft.
Delighted, Lestat laughed. “I look beautiful in whatever it is I don, chéri. N’est-ce pas évident?” There was a sly, altogether captivating grin on his face.
He dropped the torn paper. Louis rolled his eyes.
Illuminated by the ribbons of orange flare cast from the hearth, Lestat had immediately removed his clothes down to bare skin, and Louis watched.
It goes without saying that yes, Lestat did look beautiful in the robe, the color flattered him dashingly and made his eyes stand out. Diamonds, they were. Sapphires turned labradorite with the multicolored reflections cast of the fire.
The trim along the wrists made his hands, his fingers with rings, his nails look elegant.
“Told you,” Louis had said, biting his lip before he could no longer resist grabbing Lestat, kissing him, and subsequently, Louis removed the robe.
They’d made love in front of the fireplace that night. They’d laid on the rug in front of the fire for some time, both draped with the robe that spread across two covered very little.
Lestat was thrilled. That had been a good night. Louis, gifting him his love. Louis, offering his intimacy, sharing his body.
He’d commented that the juxtaposition of the satin on Louis’ complexion was the likeness of an art piece. Louis had scoffed, but also chuckled, amused, and they had kissed about it.
The robe is now several weeks past.
Lestat is out to hunt, and Louis, though he enjoys the parallel quiet of the two of them inhabiting the reading room as a pair, enjoys it equally alone.
He is reading, and the robe has made a reprise.
Lestat doesn’t know it, but Louis’ devotion manifests itself in private, clandestine ways. Occasionally, when Lestat is out for long, when Louis knows he will be alone, he will go through his companion’s things.
It started out with ill (nay, jealous) intent. Louis would tell himself it was benign, glancing into Lestat’s wardrobe, perhaps opening a drawer or two, eyes wandering over the contents before his hands would root around amongst them. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but in his subconscious, of course Louis was looking for evidence of things Lestat would not want him to see.
At some point, the practice of snooping became the practice of touching, and then the practice of smelling. Shirts, first. Then ties, they held remnants of past cologne applied to pressure points so well. Then the underwear. The socks.
Lestat liked to smell him, but Louis hid the strange shame of wanting to be amongst Lestat’s things, and especially his penchant for smelling them.
Scent is intimate. Every time Louis would partake in his secluded ritual, little scenes would emerge in his head, and he would stand there, enjoying the film reel that began to roll as his senses began to cloud.
The cologne from a neckerchief became a bygone scene from an opera. Louis remembered it well. They’d in tandem given it a standing ovation.
A shirt became a walk in Jackson Square, blooming magnolias clung to the textile.
A pair of socks became a stroll through the Quarter, and Louis could hear the jazz from the windows.
A pair of underwear became a hushed, passionate affair in the back of their automobile, enjoyed by the bayou after indulging themselves in a pair of mortal lovers left slumbering in a backseat.
The natural progression of this guilty pleasure was to wear Lestat’s clothes. Never for very long, usually only enough to notice how the shoulders of a shirt were ill-fitting on him, or how the pants of a set of pajamas didn’t quite flatter his waist.
Eventually, Louis hardly realizes he is doing it, and it becomes common (albeit sporadic, he is never left alone for too long) practice.
He chooses the robe to swaddle himself in. He dons it with bare skin beneath it, and enjoys the satin against his chest, his thighs, his butt. He places himself on the chaise longue, and takes to his book.
Below the reading room, sometime around midnight, he hears the front door, the rustle of keys. Lestat has come home.
For a moment, Louis’ stomach lurches. He can’t quite pinpoint why this practice of his is shameful, he knows Lestat would rejoice in it, would watch with reverberating praise as his lover took pleasure in recalling him through smell, in recalling him through secondhand touch of his things.
He’s talking to Louis as he comes up the stairs.
“He really should’ve been paying closer attention, he’ll barely even notice her gone, smelling like whiskey, it is as if they ask for it, mon cher,” Lestat says with no small amount of condescending amusement.
He’s talking about his hunt, but Louis doesn’t care about that.
Louis feels flayed when Lestat enters the room and sees him there in that robe.
For a moment, they simply look at each other. Louis doesn’t move, wondering if he stays still, perhaps Lestat’s vision will somehow become entirely dependent on movement.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Mhm. You snatch a girl? You kill her?”
Lestat grins, dark and crooked, and Louis can see his pupils flare before they shrink back.
“No, Louis. I left her alive, for you, everything I do is for you, Louis. My wings have been clipped and I accept it with grace,” Lestat tells him theatrically, sighing loudly as if plagued.
He comes closer.
“Where is your robe, mon cher? You have thought of warming mine?”
A miracle, another miracle to get Saint Louis to Saint Peter’s list. The generosity! The love that such a feat requires! In his absence, his Louis dreams of him still!
Louis says nothing, only watches Lestat approach. He is unmoved even as Lestat falls to his knees in front of him. Louis keeps his book open.
“Comme je dit, si beau sur toi,” Lestat continues.
Louis looks down at him.
“I spilled wine on mine,” He says casually.
Lestat laughs.
Louis should never face even a moment of discomfort for the rest of his immortal days. He has sullied his own garment with wine? He should help himself to Lestat’s! It is his right. What is Lestat’s is Louis’.
“I see,” He hums.
Louis sighs and closes his book. Lestat smells divine. He is pumped full of fresh vitale. The smell of his prey does little to detract from the smell of him. His skin looks lively, veins a swollen, healthy blue beneath his flesh.
Louis feels as if he is feasting on his companion secondhand, he feels his heart swell and his senses begin to cloud, his eyes affix to Lestat on his knees. He looks good there.
“You wanna light a fire?” Louis asks.
Lestat looks at him as if he is a lap dog that has been posed with “Treat?”
His eyes plead silently. Louis is a weak man when he sees that look. Lestat looks at him as if it is he and he alone that hung the moon, as if it is he that each night wills the stars to return and they bow to his whim.
“Go ahead,” Louis relinquishes with a little sigh, and immediately, Lestat scoots closer on his knees to lie his head against Louis’ thigh. His eyes flutter.
“You gonna light that fire, Lestat?”
Lestat mumbles unintelligibly, turning his head to place a kiss on Louis’ thigh, then to his knee, a hand snaking underneath his calf to elevate it just enough that his lips can catch a taste of his shin.
“Oui, mon ange. Dans une minute,” He murmurs, lifting Louis’ leg a little higher, allowing the kisses to trail and linger.
Louis sighs. He is all too familiar with the ways in which Lestat loves to worship him, truly worship him, his love bursting from the seams and bringing him round time and time again to pay his respects, his tributes, to kneel at his altar and recite his hallowed Lord’s Prayer.
The man is not the Devil. The Devil could never even feign such devotion.
“Don’t look like it,” Louis hums, amused. He relaxes back a little further against the cushion behind him. He watches Lestat’s cheek rub against his ankle with relish.
“My heart is no longer my own, Saint Louis,” Lestat tells him, a shaky sigh fluttering from open lips as he kisses an ankle, along the side of a foot.
Louis used to think that Lestat kissing his feet was just some sort of bizarre fetish. He knows otherwise, now. Lestat would kiss his neck with the same reverence he does his feet. Lestat would lick his navel with the same affection he does his ankles.
“C’mere,” Louis says softly, reaching for Lestat’s face.
Of course, Lestat meets him in an instant, hands flying to cup Louis’ jaws and pull him to hunch over top of him. Lestat kisses him, he savors his lips, his tongue, tasting the insides of his cheeks and the backs of his teeth.
“You were thinking of me?” Lestat asks breathlessly between kisses. His bottom lip quivers.
“Missed you,” Louis admits.
Lestat shudders, and he moans out like a sob.
“You missed me?” He asks before composing himself to smirk and lavish more kisses to Louis’ mouth.
“Mhm,” Louis hums, cupping Lestat’s cheeks. They hold each other’s faces, their lips dance a practiced waltz.
A large hand drops down to Louis’ thigh, gently closing fingers around the plush flesh, appraising up and down with his palm and rubbing with his thumbs.
Those thighs could mount an army at a glance. They could serve a muse to the Great Masters. They could spawn philosophical musings for centuries to come. The fine, dark hair that serves to decorate the soft skin deserves a trilogy of its own.
“Louis,” Lestat says softly.
Louis pauses, and bites back a smirk. He knows that look on Lestat’s face. He knows intimately the swell of his pupils.
“What?”
“Louis,” He repeats.
“You gonna keep sayin’ that or are you gonna talk? You never shut up,” Louis teases, smirk growing. He feels the gums harboring his fangs between to twitch. He wants to bite into Lestat’s neck.
“I like the way it tastes. Your name. Louis…Of course it’s Louis…,” Lestat says breathily.
Louis groans. He thumbs over Lestat’s ear before gripping at the back of his neck.
“Light that fire. Lock us in. Do me some face,” He demands, his own pupils beginning to swell.
Lestat’s eyes grow wide, and it is frantic clamor for him to get to his feet. His vampiric grace suddenly abandons him, nearly tripping over his own legs, over the rug.
Louis needs pleasured? Is it not Lestat’s calling to give it to him? It is. Nothing else is important. When it is all stripped away, it is Louis that remains, it is Louis and his wishes, his desires. And Louis missed him! Lestat would be New Orleans’ cruelest fiend to deny his companion his indulgence! Louis does not need to miss him anymore! He has returned to his place of worship!
The speed of the Dark Gift has never been more useful, Lestat thinks to himself. He cannot bear to squander a second to walk to pull the French doors closed and click the lock, only to then have to walk to the fire fuss over lighting it.
He is back to his knees in an instant, a hand placed on either of Louis’ thighs. He watches with wonder as Louis shifts, relaxes and gets comfortable, propping his legs apart.
Lestat trembles, his mouth hangs parted. A miracle, his Saint has performed. He is handing them out so generously!
The fine satin of the robe loosely shrouds Louis’ most divine body parts in cover. Lestat leans against a thigh, rubbing his cheek there first, sighing with relief. He turns his head to kiss it.
“You like doin’ that?” Louis asks, even though he knows he answer. It’s for his own ego. It’s to keep his practice of snooping and smelling and wearing free of the desire to ransack Lestat’s things looking for evidence otherwise.
“I love it, je t’aime,” Lestat says back.
Louis loves it too.
He leans down, bending himself in half to nuzzle against Lestat’s cheek. He kisses the skin there before nosing against those pretty, blond curls. Louis smells him and sighs.
Louis sits back up and reclines.
Lestat noses to the crook of Louis’ thigh, he trails his tongue over the soft skin before he climbs to where the robe is separating his mouth from his communion.
He nudges the fabric out of the way, and a sighing shudder wracks his body. He noses into the hair he finds there, pressing his face into it with no restraint. He rubs his nose and his cheek gratuitously into and across Louis’ crotch.
The blood in Louis’ veins begins to pump harder, more urgently. It flows with no pause downward, his cock twitching and swelling, inflating underneath Lestat’s cheek.
Lestat licks around the base. The wiry, taut curls tickle his tongue. He can taste Louis’ heartbeat as he licks downward, rubbing his face now into the jewels below.
Louis groans.
Lestat’s tongue begins its practiced worship on Louis’ balls. He loves them. The skin is soft, warm, they smell like him. He licks indulgently, opening his mouth enough to suck one inside.
He’s very gentle. He sucks softly, but no less dutifully.
Louis’ cock throbs, it twitches, and he sighs, brushing Lestat’s hair from his face.
Lestat finds Heaven between Louis’ legs. He switches his attention to the other one, caressing it with his tongue before enveloping it in his mouth. Louis’ hips jerk.
The hand in his hair tightens at the crown, and Lestat moans gratefully. Louis lifts his hips and perversely rubs his crotch against Lestat’s face, huffing softly at the friction.
“Fuck,” He huffs. Lestat moans for him again.
The sound is lewd, Louis’ balls slipping from Lestat’s mouth. He kisses up to the shaft, hungrily licking from base to tip before he takes the head in his mouth. A hand steadies Louis at the base.
Lestat swirls his tongue around the soft cockhead like a lollipop, he laves generously over the foreskin, he hollows his cheeks for effect before dipping his head, slow, languid bobbing.
Louis watches, transfixed, huffing softly and keeping that tight hand in his hair.
Religion got it wrong. Not just one, but all of them. Heaven is no distant concept, it is a real place, though not in the sky or some far off astral plane: It is here. It is their reading room. It is Louis’ cock.
The fire casts shadows and highlights, Lestat’s hair gleams. His eyes are hazy, his brows pulled together. He dips his head lower, the hand at the base tightening into a squeeze.
“That’s it,” Louis groans, his jaw tightening, an exhale pulling through his teeth.
Oh the praise, Lestat begins to drool.
The throbbing, pulsing blood under his tongue makes Lestat feel dizzy. He looks up at Louis’ face from underneath his eyelashes, the hand not holding his cock holding his thigh, fingers digging in to dimple the flesh.
Lestat sucks harder. He lowers his mouth and draws it back, sliding back and forth, up and down.
Louis moans, his chest rising and falling with greater effort. His cock starts to leak.
The taste is salty, it’s like sweet iron, and Lestat’s eyes flutter. Greedily, he pulls his head up to the tip, lewdly slurping up the precum and his own spit. His hand begins to pump the wet erection between his fingers.
“How it taste?” Louis gasps.
Lestat moans pitifully, pursing his lips at the leaking slit and sucking hard as though he can draw out more fluid.
Louis moans again, his hips bucking and thighs quivering. The nerves there are so sensitive.
The sight is divine, Lestat smirks around the cock in his mouth and giggles through an exhale from his nose.
His mouth opens again, and sucks in more length, his hand pumping and twisting the shaft that’s left free. Lestat sucks hard, his head bobbing, he keeps time in his head to ensure perfect rhythm.
His Louis unravels beautifully, those hips jerk, the force begins to slide his cock without Lestat bobbing his head. Louis pushes his head down, and he tips his own head back to moan at the ceiling.
Lestat sits there, devoted, as Louis’ jerking hips turn to thrusts. He fucks into that wet, drooling mouth, warm and tight. He feels the head push against the spongy back of Lestat’s throat, and it makes his toes curl.
Lestat gags, which only makes Louis croon and shudder. The gagging squeezes the head so tight.
Louis’ hips thrust faster, greedy, taking his own pleasure. He fucks Lestat’s throat with little consideration, looking back down at him. He wishes he could see that throat do its little cock-swallowing magic trick from above, watch the head expand the skin.
Every gag, whimper, and gulp only spurns Louis to thrust harder, as deep as he can lodge himself, feeling Lestat’s teeth graze the skin at the base.
It’s building, he feels hot. Lestat moans around him, brows drawn together, pupils swallowing up his irises.
He grips Louis’ hips now, both hands, pinning them back against the cushion. He begins the practiced bobbing of his head again, swallowing Louis all the way to the base. Louis moans and holds Lestat’s head there, throbbing and twitching in his throat, grinding against his face.
What a good little cocksucker his disciple is.
The sounds are pornographic. Lestat slurps up his own drool, he sucks tightly, the air full of his suckling. He resumes the bobbing of his head, faster now, coaxing Louis toward his well-deserved orgasm.
What had Louis done to earn it? Look at him. Breathe. Exist.
Louis pants for breath, his own brows knitted tightly together in delicious, beautiful pleasure. He watches Lestat as if it is him that performs miracles.
“Lestat, Lestat,” Louis moans.
Lestat moans back, mouth pulling up to the head only to swallow the entire length again in one gulp. He repeats this, and Louis begins to shake.
The climax hits him hard, so hard that his muscles feel tight, his toes clench, and he grits his teeth while his hips shudder and jerk. His cock pumps out Lestat’s reward, shooting right down his throat.
A pitiful whimper leaves Lestat. He can hardly taste it!
Eat it all, Louis wants to say. Lestat wouldn’t dream of anything different. He swallows, every swallow feels like the muscles in his throat work individually to milk Louis’ cock.
Louis rides out his orgasm, and Lestat sucks, cradles his balls, working him through it.
It is only when Louis goes limp against the backrest of the chaise longue, panting raggedly, that Lestat removes his mouth with a wet pop.
Desperately, he sucks Louis’ sensitive head, whining around it as his tongue works, starving, to collect the cum dribbling there, to suck it away, to savor the taste. He pumps Louis’ tired cock, trying to squeeze and wring out the last few drops.
Louis yelps, sensitive.
“Désolé, chéri,” Lestat pants, rubbing his face up the length of Louis’ cock, sliming his own cheek with spit and remnants of precum.
He sits there, rubbing his face along the softening erection until Louis grabs him and demands a kiss, taking it with force. Louis tastes himself, and Lestat paws at him desperately.
“Wear all of my robes, Saint Louis,” He pleads.
“I might,” Louis says breathlessly.
They move to the floor, atop the rug, and make love in front of the fireplace. It’s a good night.