deathoftheauthor | the city

( Pleased, Louis hums into the kiss, squeezing both Lestat's hands in his own. Being cared for like this is so precious, something that he's never allowed from anyone in his long, long life, and he feels so undeserving of such tenderness that he nearly wants to pull away. But he doesn't, too hypnotized by the sight of Lestat's long fingers caressing his own, the gentle scrubbing beneath his nails, until he's shining so clean and new that he might have been freshly-made from porcelain.

He bites at Lestat's lip a little as they kiss, teasing the swell of it with his teeth, and tormenting them both by licking just once at Lestat's sharp fangs. He withdraws only after a very long moment, eyes half-lidded as he gazes at Lestat, his heart thudding in his chest. The wound still aches with every throb, but he doesn't think he'll lose much more blood. And if he doesn't do anything foolish, and the City doesn't send him back to that party tonight to aggravate the injury, he just might be healed tomorrow evening when he wakes. In a few more nights, surely. )

Let me see your wrist?

( Louis asks softly, undemanding, turning Lestat's bitten wrist to see whether it's healed as much as it ought to have. )

[ Lestat almost feels his resolve slip in that kiss. Oh, having Louis be the one to tempt him and distract him is a novelty he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of, and he only hopes that the future brings them both many more opportunities to lure the other out of what should be done and further into the realm of want and need. Preferably with less bodily harm, though.

When Louis takes his wrist Lestat shows it to him with no resistance. The bite is healed, certainly, but there is a pinkness to the skin and a slight glossy texture that betrays the wound, the healing still not entirely complete. It's strange to see himself like this, marked in this way... and yet strangely exciting. An image flashes in his mind of his fangs twanging at his veins, the flesh pulping beneath his teeth, bruising. Could a mark be left on him now, here in this strange place? ]

It's slow. We are weaker here, it makes sense that the effects of the blood are weak, too.

[ He doesn't sound too concerned, distracted with his own thoughts as he is, but his eyes drop to Louis' wound and his eyebrows pull together a little. What he knows about their recovery time is warped now, and he wonders if he's made a mistake making Louis stand for so long. ]

Let me help you out. We shouldn't make any assumptions until we see you start to heal properly.

( Louis turns Lestat's wrist carefully in his hand, frowning with worry at the sight of the freshly-healed wound. It stands out so plainly to him against the skin around it; the light glints off the water as it rolls down Lestat's arm, and that only makes the texture more apparent. He makes a concerned sound, a soft cluck of his tongue, then lifts that wrist to his lips to kiss it gently. )

Very well. I'll take your lead, Lestat.

( He sighs, leaning his weight against Lestat again, putting complete trust in him. )

I've never been wounded this badly before... I have very little to compare it to. I suppose I don't know what to expect.

That is probably for the best, given how we can't trust our expectations.

[ Lestat knows all too well what healing from a fatal wound feels like, but reminding Louis of that now feels cruel.

After turning off the water, Lestat takes Louis by the hands and guides him out of the tub. Like this, not pressed up against one another and without the tender touches of before, Lestat feels a strange charged quality to the air; it isn't expectation or even unbearable desire — though his mind is plenty distracted by the sight of Louis soft lips against his wrist, and the idea he'd had previously of pressing Louis into the blankets of their safe little sleeping space and kissing him until dawn — it's more a bone-deep need to protect and to covet something precious to him that he got closer than he realised to losing.

If Lestat hadn't bled for him, would he have stayed awake? If Lestat hadn't been there, would he have survived?

Lestat tightens his grip a little, just for a moment, before he snatches up a previously unused towel and begins to drape it slowly across Louis' skin; the benefit of being vampires is that water sort of runs off their bodies, meaning that really he only needs to dry their hair, which he starts to do next. Then, after wrapping the towel around Louis' waist and grabbing one for his own, he guides them back out into the living room.

Thankfully, there are no actual doors on the way to their closet aside from the closet door itself, and once there Lestat takes the initiative to open it and step through first, with Louis in tow behind him, and finds their makeshift bed untouched and just how they left it through the doorway. ]

Do you need anything, my heart?

( It isn't far to walk at all, their apartment is a rather modest one, but Louis is astonished by how weary he feels by the time they make it to bed. He feels a pang of fear when Lestat steps through the door, half expecting him to vanish into darkness — followed by a flood of knee-weakening relief when nothing happens.

The pet name soothes him, as it always does, a reminder of Lestat's singular affection for him — it feels like a hand clasping his and squeezing tightly. Louis sighs, leaning on Lestat, relaxing slightly as his worry leaves him. Does he need anything? He tries to think. Blood, but. Well. )

I can't think of what. ( He shakes his head. ) Just you. And perhaps that electric blanket.

( He bumps his forehead against Lestat's cheek. )

I'm thirsting a little, though I wish it weren't so. I'll need to drink again eventually. But there are bottles in the refrigerator; I can manage that on my own.

( His voice is quiet as he tries to keep his shame from seeping into his tone. He doesn't need Lestat to worry any more than he already is. )

[ Lestat listens, and as Louis speaks he's guiding him to sit amongst the strewn aside blankets and pillows, bolstering the assortment in a way that Louis can angle some up behind him and the wall, so that when he lies back he'll be more propped up than flat out against the comforter on the floor.

The electric blanket is folded up at the foot of the 'bed' and so Lestat drags it toward them and flicks the little controller on the wire to first turn it on, and then turn it to a comfortable temperature enough to warm their ever chilled skin.

He tries not to let his expression slip to something disapproving at the shame in Louis' voice, given everything the two of them have been through tonight, but he can't deny the little twitch of his eyebrow at the idea that Lestat might let him do anything on his own right now. ]

If you need it, Louis, don't hold back. You need to heal. I can get it for you.

[ Lestat considers his own state — the significant loss of blood he'd taken on in his decision to heal Louis, the unlikelihood that he'll have a chance to feed before the following night — and actually, for a second, considers tasting the bottles himself… before he comes to his senses with a grimace. ]

( Louis bundles up in the blankets, relaxing into the nest of bedding that Lestat has arranged so considerately for him. It's a mild relief to have some of his modesty back, if only because he's so used to it, but the thought of cuddling up to Lestat like this beneath the comforters sends a warmth through him that has nothing at all to do with the electric blanket.

When Lestat grimaces, Louis takes his hand and squeezes it. Louis assumes it's just the talk of bottled blood that's troubling him; he would be astonished to learn that Lestat considered it at all. He wants to protest, but he knows that Lestat must feel at a loss for how to help, and so he agrees as much for Lestat's sake as for his own. )

All right. Thank you, Lestat.

( A soft, grateful smile. He brings Lestat's hand to his lips, kissing the back. )

You need to feed, too. You gave me so much. I know you can't stand the bottles, but I can. Will you let me do that for you?

[ Lestat turns to watch Louis take his hand up in a kiss, his head tilted ever so slightly in an almost canine way as he admires the resistance of Louis' soft lips against his hand. Such a tender little moment, so simple a gesture… and yet Lestat feels so overwhelmingly protective of him that he struggles to even process his words properly at first. He could easily stay here for hours, watching Louis hold his hand like he's a treasure, and bestow kiss upon kiss to the marble-like surface over his veins. It's only the earnest look on Louis' face that snaps him out of it, and he wrenches his sight away. ]

You are determined to make it difficult for me to be gentle with you, aren't you?

[ It comes out a little lower than he'd intended — he'd only meant that Louis should be thinking of sleep, of rest, not of feeding Lestat who, despite having lost blood, still has plenty of vitality to him by comparison... but his voice is softened by affection and warmed by the need to protect, and then there's the undeniable prickling of thirst at the idea alone. ]

Wait for me a moment.

[ He rises to his feet quickly, leaving the door open for safety (and perhaps so that Louis can watch him) as he tosses the towel keeping him decent away somewhere and unhooks from a nearby peg the ridiculously extravagant silk housecoat he'd only picked up from the mall for the colour — deep, rich burgundy with sleeves of warm brown and gold piping — and slips it on.

He returns from the lower floor with a bottle in hand, robe tied so loosely about his hips that he might as well have not bothered clothing himself at all, and eases himself into an elegant lounge at Louis' side with a slight smirk on his face. ]

I feel like a young man bringing champagne to the honeymoon bed, though I thought you might be offended if I brought a glass.

( Louis dozes off a little waiting for Lestat, and when he wakes, he can't tell whether it's been seconds or minutes. The rain is still drumming on the roof and windows, and a growl of thunder sounds somewhere in the distance, but it only feels all the more warm and safe in their bed.

Louis blinks and stretches his legs and smiles up at him, and when Lestat comes to lay at his side, Louis reaches out to run his fingers along the inner V of the robe. The silk makes a quiet rushing sound beneath his touch that he quite likes, and he follows it by touching those same fingertips to Lestat's bare chest beneath the open fall of the robe, finding his heartbeat and settling there. )

Romantic as always.

( His smile turns slightly rueful, and he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. )

I can't take offense to a glass when it already comes in bottles. I know you wouldn't do it mockingly.

Hm, perhaps.

[ He wouldn't. Probably. He glances down and watches the progress of Louis' fingers against his body, loving the way he feels through the silk and against his skin in equal amounts. Lestat notices that the thirst has taken a backseat despite the fact that he has a bottle of blood in his hand, and that all he really wants to do is settle himself beside Louis under the blanket and hold him.

He's caught by that thought, in fact, that all instinct and want and hunger has simmered down in him to leave only a soft tenderness behind. He's sure Louis won't mind, of course, but there are more pressing matters at hand. ]

You can touch me as much as you like in a moment.

[ He says, unable to resist flicking his gaze to Louis' face with a knowing little grin before he lifts Louis' hand away by the wrist and pushes the bottle into his hands instead. ]

You know all too well my bedside manner isn't the greatest, so you should take advantage of me doting on you like this while you still can.

( Louis rolls his eyes as he takes the bottle. It isn't true; Lestat can be incredibly doting, he's always been this way, even when he was at his worst. Louis thinks of him hovering at his father's bedside, seeing to it that he was cared for and comfortable and fed — and Louis had thought him so callous for the times Lestat would lash out and shout at the old man. Now, knowing what he does, Louis is astonished that Lestat ever went back, amazed by the depths of his compassion...

He shakes his head dismissively. )

I haven't given you many opportunities to practice with me.

( He twists the lid, and it goes pop, and the scent of blood fills the little room — cold, still and unmoving, but miraculously fresh enough to sustain him. He stifles a sigh as he stares down at it, willing himself to drink. It isn't easy, not at the best of times, but Louis can't feel sorry for himself about it tonight. It's what he deserves. More than he deserves, after what he's done.

With a delicate shudder, Louis puts the bottle to his lips and drinks. He takes long gulps, taking no time at all to savor it the way he would a mortal victim. There's none of the pleasure he'd found in Dorian's blood, none of the heat or the throb or the connection, and he still feels like a monster. )

[ Lestat catches that eye roll and immediately it turns his grin towards self-satisfaction, but with an edge of something else; Louis knows him better than anyone, after all, and can see straight through his posturing without any need for Lestat to do it at all... and yet somehow he still feels like he must, that somehow Louis knowing his more tender side and admitting it with words are two entirely different things. He isn't wrong, either. He really hasn't given Lestat many opportunities, but Lestat also knows that the last thing he deserved when he and Louis were together was the opportunity to care for him. What could he have possibly done?

Lestat watches him lift the bottle to his lips, trying not to squint at the uncanny scent in the air that he recognises but somehow feels wrong. He reaches a hand out to rest softly on Louis side, palm over his ribs, feeling the veins beneath his skin fatten and flex with the shift of his muscles as he drinks, but with none of the comforting warmth or the thrill of the bite.

Nevertheless, Lestat finds it oddly... enticing, to watch him drink. Even if it's not living blood, even if the ritual is gone, Louis is still feeding in some abstract sense, and Lestat gets caught up outright staring at him, thumb brushing over and over the same spot on his side as he does.

When he's finished, Lestat licks his lips as if he were the one drinking, and blinks through the slight reverie it put him in. ]

Well, here's to many more opportunities in future.

( Louis' eyes are riveted to Lestat's mouth, and he finds himself mirroring the gesture without meaning to, tongue catching the last droplets clinging to his pinkening lips. There's a faint flush in his cheeks that wasn't there before, proof of the blood making its way through his system; there's none of the lingering ecstasy of the swoon leaving him, no, but some of the weakness in his limbs is fading, and he's no longer troubled by faint pins-and-needles under his skin.

He caps the bottle again, and lifts his eyebrows, only belatedly registering Lestat's words. )

Shall I throw myself into danger more often so that you can learn to dote on me?

( Louis says it so gently, and he touches Lestat's chest again as he leans in to kiss his lips. )

[ Lestat folds into the touch to his chest, coming closer instinctively even before Louis kisses him. He doesn't have time to respond to his words before their mouths meet, and he kisses back with a slow but urgent kind of insistence, pressing his closed mouth over each of Louis' lips in turn, lapping his tongue gently across them, tasting the slight perfume of the blood even though Louis has been as neat as ever and hasn't left a drop spare.

The words feel as though they haunt him, though, and the hand he has on Louis' ribs slides to his waist to pull him a little closer and keep him there; his fingers pressing in, his touch a resounding answer of no. No, he doesn't want to see Louis in danger ever again, and no he won't allow it to happen. Not for his sake, not for anything. Just the thought of being trapped in that room while Louis suffered a blade to his chest makes his heart ache with the need to tear into something, or to curl around Louis and hiss, to protect him, or to build him up so strong that nothing would even dare to come near to him in the first place. ]

I won't let you.

[ Lestat murmurs, pulling back just enough that their mouths come apart but their noses still touch. ]

Let me dote on you in that way. Let me protect you.

( Louis sets the empty bottle behind him in the nest of pillows as Lestat draws him close, making a mental note to take care of it later. He sighs against Lestat's mouth, slipping his foot between Lestat's calves and cuddling close; his palm presses against Lestat's heartbeat and stays there, and when Lestat pulls back from the kiss, Louis traces the tip of his nose slowly up and down the side of Lestat's. )

Always.

( Another brush of lips. He feels a pang of guilt, and the urge to apologize for everything that happened, for losing himself, for harming Lestat's friend — but he swallows it down. It won't help to hear Lestat reassure him. )

Thank you for letting me come with you... for letting me stay by your side all this time. You're so much stronger than I am, I know, but I've been so, so proud to be your partner.

[ Lestat murmurs a sound, because even without hearing him say it and despite being distracted by the sweet things falling from Louis' mouth, it's like he can sense some kind of tenseness in the way Louis kisses him, like there's something troubling him he doesn't want to shed light on. Lestat doesn't have to be able to read his mind to have an educated guess as to what that might be, so he simply kisses him again. ]

I wanted you to come with me, just as I want you by my side.

[ Lestat shifts so that one arm can cradle Louis' jaw while his other resolutely keeps him close by his waist. Their heads pushed into the pillows, the blanket strewn half across them like this, Lestat is sure that falling asleep in this way every morning is something he's dreamt of, in some abstract way. It's surreal to feel this kind of contentedness after the efforts of the City to pull them apart, but if anything it only makes Lestat more determined to keep Louis close and safe, and to be all the more happy for having him here in spite of it all. ]

You are stronger than you think. I know I fell short in making you, [ His expression twitches a little, because saying that makes his heart feel cold for a brief moment, and he wasn't expecting it. ] but you have a strength in you that has nothing to do with the gift, and everything to do with who you are. You pulled yourself away from being lost to hunger because I asked you to. I can't name many who I would confidently say could do something like that.

( Louis nuzzles into Lestat's touch, eyes soft and tender and fixed on his handsome face. His fingertips trace up and down over Lestat's heart, and his other hand comes up to stroke his face in a mirror of Lestat's touch on his cheek. )

It was because it was you. I know it.

( He says it with a quiet certainty. His eyes fall to the center of Lestat's chest for a moment, and he sighs. )

I don't know how to explain it. It wasn't like when Armand used his Mind Gift on me all those years ago. I wanted to obey you. It was as if... as if you were speaking to to my soul, to who you knew I wanted to be. Not coercing me, but bringing me back to myself.

( His brows pull together, and he looks back up to Lestat, a plaintive expression on his face. )

Does that make any sense, Lestat?

[ Lestat's eyebrows pinch ever so slightly as a wave of emotion washes over him; his heart aches with love for Louis, with concern for him, and with a complicated kind of thrill at Louis using the word 'obey', and a flood of shame to follow it. ]

It does.

[ The idea that their souls can speak to one another in this way, without any influence from the mind gift or their vampiric powers has been something Lestat has entertained before, though never with any serious weight to it. He'd thought as much when he'd left the safehouse the night before the concert and had wandered into the dusk to meet that presence, and hadn't felt an ounce of fear despite not truly knowing who might be waiting for him. Some part of him had known, though, deep down. Impossible, yes, but equally impossible to deny. ]

But that doesn't detract from your strength, Louis. To know your own mind this intricately is a strength in and of itself. I have always marvelled at the way you see things and the way you understand them. It's driven me mad, yes, but I can't deny how captivating it is either. A weaker soul might have wanted desperately to follow a voice trying to bring them back, but been too weak to pull through.

[ He pushes into that hand on his chest, shifting ever so slightly closer; he brings a leg up to lock around the one Louis has between his calves. He kisses him — once, then twice, then again on the angle of his jaw. ]

I'm not sure I would have been able to do what you did.

( Louis flushes faintly, hanging on each word of praise, his heartbeat quickening. It's intoxicating to hear Lestat say things like this, to think that he's captivated by Louis' mind; Louis always feels so ordinary compared to Lestat, to Armand, to the ancient ones that had come together in their time of crisis. Too often, he had been desired only for qualities he didn't value in himself. His beauty, his ability to suffer — were these the only things worth loving about him?

His throat tightens. Lestat had always mocked his introspective nature in the old days... to hear that he actually values it, thinks it's a strength... it's almost too much to bear. )

Thank you, Lestat.

( Louis whispers the words, and two red teardrops well up in the corners of his eyes. He blinks, his vision pinkening as the droplets stick to his lashes. )

But, you know... if it were you in my place... I believe you would come back to me.

[ Lestat brushes his thumbs over Louis' soft eyelashes, brushing away the faint traces of tears with a reverent gesture. Then, as though he's only just remembered that his body is crying out for the sustenance he'd spent healing Louis' wound, he brings his thumb to his mouth and uses his tongue and lips to clear away the traces of the tears with movements so soft it's like a kiss. ]

I hope so, my heart.

[ He could say a million things; that he has no intention of putting Louis through that, that he won't allow the City to take advantage of him in that way, that he would recognise and come back to Louis at the end of the earth when all their features are worn away by time and all they have is the connection between their souls... but nothing feels like it matters quite as much as bringing a hand up to the back of Louis' neck to reel him in and kissing him again. ]

( Louis makes a soft, stifled sound at the sight of Lestat's thumb sweeping into his mouth, sticky with Louis' blood tears. He strains forward just the slightest amount, wanting, yearning, alive with the memory of Lestat's fangs sliding into his throat, and before the ache can consume him, Lestat's mouth is covering his.

Louis strokes his cheek with his thumb, fingertips sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, lost in a mass of blond curls. When he breaks the kiss, it's only enough to ask, in a soft voice that's mostly breath against Lestat's lips: )

Will you drink from me, Lestat?

( He shivers, pressing closer, his leg tensing where it's caught between Lestat's. )

[ Lestat lets out a soft sound, like an exhalation or a sigh but so much heavier than that. His lungs seem to quiver with the effort, his body basking in the way it feels to hear Louis say such a thing so up front, because even if he knew the offer was on the table, it's a very different thing all together to hear Louis' voice form the words and ask it of him with such a quiet, desperate voice. ]

You must think my resolve much stronger than it actually is, if you think I could resist you asking me like that...

[ He knows it's reckless, knows he should have at least brought Louis a couple of bottles, maybe, considering he knew where this was inevitably headed, but he can't think about any of that now… Not when Louis moves so easily under Lestat's guidance as he carefully rolls and encourages him onto his back. Hair fanned out against the pillows and blankets like this, Lestat is caught by the sheer decadence of him, and has to brush his fingertips across his brow and down his temple, his cheek, his mouth, before he can bring himself to break their eye contact and lift Louis' chin with his thumb and forefinger.

He's so gentle, so impossibly gentle, more so than he's ever been with anyone, as he leans down to kiss the thick artery beating in Louis' throat. ]

I love you. [ He murmurs it almost without sound against his flesh, but he's certain he'll feel it anyway when he opens his mouth, bares his fangs and sinks them slowly but firmly into that waiting vessel. ]

( Louis' mouth drops open, and he exhales a soft cry of satisfaction as Lestat's sharp fangs slide into his flesh. His whole body tenses with it, but Lestat's gentleness and the safety of the columns of strong limbs around him keeps Louis so calm and so soothed that he almost feels drowsy. His arms wrap around Lestat, bare legs tangling together; he arches up against Lestat in the quiet ecstasy of the swoon, rocking against him in a slow, tidal clasp, one hand cradling the back of Lestat's head to hold him there with gentle, encouraging pressure as he drinks.

He doesn't have the presence of mind to attempt to send any images into Lestat through the blood, but exhausted as he is, his heart and its defenses are entirely open: I love you, he thinks in a reverent, half-aware litany, I'm yours, I will always be yours, body, blood, and soul. Take this blood, I give myself to you, let me nourish you, let me keep you safe and whole and show you everything you are to me... )

[ Every time Lestat tastes Louis’ blood on his tongue he’s sure that nothing has ever been better, nor could anything ever compare to it again; each spurt against the roof of his mouth, every swathe of it across his teeth and tongue, every dribble that threatens to leak between his lips but is locked in by Lestat’s near obsessive attention has him feeling entranced in the rhythm of Louis’ pulse. His own heart soon falls into time with him, and Lestat’s body curves to meet the arch of Louis’ spine in an elegant kind of movement that has him breathless as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

The feelings translated through the blood push his mind toward softer times. He thinks about finding Louis dozing before the fire, a book upturned in his lap and a head of blonde curls strewn across his knee. He thinks of Louis’ quiet laughter hidden behind his hand as they sit together and talk. He thinks of Louis’ eyes half lidded with affection, trying to hold back a smile and ultimately failing. He thinks of Louis’ hand in his, the ring on his finger, the shine of his eyes, the twitch of his eyebrows, the sound of his voice saying his name again, again, again.

Every ounce of love Louis sends his way, he covets and doubles in himself, sending it back and hoping Louis can feel it.

He draws back before he’s entirely sated, not willing to push Louis’ healing body too far despite his ever constant desire to drink him down entirely, and as he heals the wound with his tongue an idea strikes him that he’s much too impulsive to truly resist.

He kisses the wound, then trails those kisses downwards, past Louis’ collarbones and the bone of his clavicle, and to the puncture still marring his pale flesh. He slits his tongue hard on a fang, then laps the flat of it slowly - so, so very slowly - across the length of the wound. ]

( Louis lets out a sigh of ecstasy as Lestat's fangs slide out of his artery and he comes back to himself. There's the briefest sting, and then the warm tingle of the wound closing under Lestat's attentions, and the pleasant, weighty blankness of his mind in the aftermath. Louis shifts restlessly as Lestat's kisses leave his throat and move downward; he's caught between disappointment and anticipation, missing Lestat's fangs immediately and yet dying to see what he intends to do next.

Again, there's that rough spark when Lestat's lips brush the wound, neither pleasure nor pain, but simply feeling. Louis' fingers wind lazily in Lestat's hair, then tighten sharply as Lestat's tongue meets the wound. He's jolted by it, the nameless intensity crackling through his entire body like static; he arches up, holding Lestat's head in place, squirming up against his body in a writhe that matches the rhythm of his tongue. )

Lestat— Lestat— oh, please, yes...

( He's too far gone to care how desperate his begging sounds, or even to know exactly what he's begging for. But he trusts Lestat to know, and to give it to him, and to see him through it. )

the city | inbox

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cw: gore? kinda?

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