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Louis is a remarkable beast, truly a man of many facets. Lestat has known this, but the opening and ripening of the human before him has never been quite as sweet as it is now.
He watches and stares, eyes tracing every inch of Louis. The man sits in waiting on a park bench, legs spread slightly as he leans back, an arm thrown over the top of the bench.
A man has just passed in front of Louis — a human, plain with nothing much to offer in Lestat’s eyes. However, Louis’ eyes follow him. Not enough for the weak sight of humans to notice, no, but enough for the stalking lion in waiting to catch.
Louis’ eyes follow the man’s body, up and down, lingering on the bulge of his bicep in the suit he wears. When the man is finally out of view, Louis turns and allows his gaze to drift back to the book he’d been using to shield his wandering eyes. And to the delight of Lestat, he doesn’t begin to read — no, Louis begins to imagine.
Obscene images spill out before Lestat’s eyes. A picture film so vivid that Lestat feels an ache begin to build in the long muscle of his cock.
Louis pressed into the brick wall of an alley, his pants down to his knees. Someone pants behind him, grunts and groans like some kind of beast drooling for a prime cut of meat. A whimper, broken and high pitched. An unfamiliar sound, that’s quickly extinguished when the figure behind moves. A bicep curls around the slender neck, not wasting a moment before it squeezes, applying an unforgiving pressure that causes Louis to let another broken whimper free.
“Stay still, or this’ll hurt a lot more.”
And a harsh thrust that steals Louis’ breath.
The sound of paper rusting pulls Louis and Lestat both out of the vivid scene. A man and woman stroll by, hand and hand, the man kicking litter out of his way as he speaks to his acquaintance.
Lestat cursed them wholeheartedly and hones back into Louis. The man’s eyes have cleared, and his mind is no longer filled with his earlier thoughts, instead he seems to finally be paying attention to the book in his grasp.
Lestat allows his gaze to travel the length of the man. The fitting of the dark, sleek suit he wears, the lackadaisical way he lounges on the seat. Lestat shivers at the very thought of putting his fangs into the supple neck attached to Louis' pretty little head.
Lestat walks closer to the other man now. He keeps his steps quiet, savoring the moments where Louis is vulnerable, an unaware prey. How easy it would be for Lestat to attack, to get a head around the slim line of that neck. To press a nail into the artery and watch trails of blood glide down, his tongue hanging from his mouth, giving it a proper landing.
But Lestat has other plans for Louis. Plans that involve more than a quick bite and momentary pleasure.
He sinks back and relaxes himself, letting the last few steps towards Louis fall down harder. Louis notices him right away, but doesn’t turn his head.
‘Lestat.’
Oh, how sweet is his dear Louis? The call of Lestat’s name from inside him. He’s taken so well to Lestat that even the slightest fall of his feet has Louis whispering his name into the private chamber of his mind.
Lestat feels his cock twitch in his pants and knows it’s going to be a long night.
“Louis.” Lestat only speaks when he’s rounded the bench and stands before Louis.
Louis takes his time dragging his eyes away from the book in his hands. Some fancy poetry collection that he’s been working through these days. Sometimes Lestat will ask about Louis’ favorite and goad the man into reading a short passage.
Other times Lestat will lean just the slightest bit closer and take a look for himself, letting his nose pick up the musky scent of Louis. He’ll drag his eyes slowly over the words and mouth them quietly to himself, a performative thing — only using the action to brush a whisper of air onto Louis’ skin and watch it spark with goosebumps.
The moment Louis flinches back, Lestat moves away with an unassuming smile. He’ll lean back and close his eyes, finding the hum and pulse of Louis’ thoughts and give a tug. Straightening it out until he’s able to hear the words from Louis himself, whispered directly into his mind as though they’re one.
Now, the soft words of the poem Louis reads dissipates in the air as he finally drags his eyes away from the paper.
“Evening,” He says, pushing the book down into his lap.
Lestat aims a smile his way and makes a move to sit next to Louis on the bench. His movement is stopped however, by Louis’ cane coming down hard onto the surface.
“Thought we agreed to meet earlier," Louis stares up at Lestat as he says it, eyes daring Lestat to deny it.
Lestat smiles, recalling the conversation they had just two days prior.
Louis doesn’t mind their late night meetings, but recently he’s been making a point to schedule their outings. Of course it didn’t take long for the man to realize that Lestat was only missing the ones that took place during the day.
“Ah yes. I of course wouldn’t dream of missing out on a prior engagement Louis, however I did run into a bit of trouble earlier."
Louis releases a quick laugh, and makes a move to stand. “Mhmm, that’s what you said the day before, and then the day before that — oh, and the day before that too.”
Lestat places a hand against his chest feigning pain and innocence.
“I cannot help if trouble always seems to find me dear Louis.”
Louis laughs again and slips his hat back on. Lestat watches as a slim hand travels down the expanse of a work hardened body, manually ironing out the wrinkles in the man’s suit.
“If troubles always findin’ you, then maybe the trouble isn’t so much as findin’ you as it is just coming right on home.”
Lestat sits up, meaning to stand and walk with the man, but Louis steps back and shakes his head.
“Can’t have you walk me back tonight uh — Paul’s back, so my ma’ll probably be up. Y’know how that can get.”
Lestat nods along although truly he doesn’t understand. What he does know for sure, is that Louis is just like any other prey animal, skittish and evasive. Lestat has learned to not be so heavy handed with the man in frequent intervals. A nudge here and there is fine, but too much can scare the man away.
With that knowledge, Lestat only hums and nods his hand. “Well then Louis, I bid you a goodnight. Although I am truly sad that we could not see each other for longer.”
Louis tips his head back at Lestat. “Come on time and that won’t be a problem.”
Louis then turns and begins his walk back home.
Lestat cannot help the way his eyes immediately plaster themselves to the bulging of Louis’ pants. He eyes the motion of his ass in the well fitted suit, watching the easy sway of strong thighs, fat veins pumping blood up and down the muscles filling out the fabric.
‘Is he watching me?’
Lestat smiles. He should turn his head and pretend to be lost in thought, or call out to Louis and give an excuse for why his eyes are fixated on the man. But well, sometimes it’s fun to watch him squirm under a watchful gaze.
Louis turns back and Lestat hears the way his heartbeat stutters in his chest as he makes contact with Lestat’s eyes.
And oh, the way his pulse stutters and misfires at the gaze. The hitch of Louis’ breath, and the subtle dilation of pupils.
Louis does a number on Lestat’s patience.
“G’night mister Lioncourt.”
Lestat watches Louis turn away, that slender form slipping into the shadowed street like a deer vanishing into the woods. The night air carries the faint musk of him, warm skin laced with the sharp tang of evening sweat, and a hint of soap from earlier in the day.
Lestat's fangs ache as he lingers behind, the chatter of passersby fading around him.
Months of this dance: stolen glances during their 'friendship,' Lestat's eyes tracing the curve of Louis' neck, the way his throat bobs when he swallows. But Louis never suspects. To him, Lestat is just the charming Frenchman with a boisterous laugh and eyes that linger a beat too long. Prey doesn't notice the predator until the teeth sink in.
He steps into the cool night, his boots making no sound on the road. Louis walks ahead, unaware, his pace unhurried, hands shoved into his pockets against the chill.
Lestat keeps distance, a shadow among shadows, but his senses drink him in. The scent grows stronger with every step — the rich, pulsing smell of life thrumming just beneath that fragile skin.
What would it taste like? Lestat imagines pinning Louis against a wall, fangs piercing the jugular, hot copper flooding his mouth as Louis gasps and writhes. Not just blood, but the essence of him: sweet and salty, laced with fear and that hidden fire Lestat sees in his eyes. He'd lap at the wound, tongue delving into the gash, sucking until Louis' body arched in agony, cock hardening against Lestat's thigh as the venom burned through his veins.
Lestat almost missteps, his mind hazy while vivid fantasies spill out and cover his eyes as he continues following the star of them.
He pictures Louis stripped bare in the alley they pass, bent over a crate, ass presented like an offering. He'd spread him open, bury his face there first, inhaling the earthy scent before thrusting his tongue inside, tasting the tight ring of muscle. Then his cock, thick and unrelenting, slamming into that virgin heat, fucking Louis raw while whispering filth in his ear —- how he'd claimed him, marked him inside and out. Would Louis cry out? Would his fists scrape brick even as his hips buck back, begging for more with tears streaking down his face?
God. Lestat imagines the deep bliss of Louis’ swelling fear in contradiction with the hardness of his cock, and the tightening of his hole around Lestat’s length.
Louis turns onto a quieter path, leading toward the edge of town where his family's home waits.
Lestat's pulse — such as it is — quickens. He's been here before. The house is nice, worn by years, the kind of place that reeks of human frailty. Lestat hungers to defile it, to fuck Louis on the creaking floorboards of his childhood bedroom, the bed where he first learned to touch himself. He'd pin Louis down, cock driving deep into his ass, the headboard banging against the wall as Louis' family slept oblivious nearby.
Lestat imagines the thrill — Louis biting his lip to stifle moans, body clenching around Lestat's shaft, cum spilling between them as Lestat bites his shoulder, drawing blood to mix with their sweat.
By the time Louis has reached his home, Lestat has already gone through fantasy after fantasy, each one more vulgar than the last. Each one pushing him closer and closer to the edge — to his breaking point.
Louis stands at his door, key in hand, and calls out softly as it creaks open. “Mama? Paul? I'm home.”
Inside, the voices murmur, mundane, and so achingly human.
His mother's concern about dinner, his brother's teasing about the late hour. Louis laughs, a low, tired sound that twists something feral in Lestat's gut. That laugh lingers in his ears long after the voices of the household fade, after Louis excuses himself and climbs the narrow stairs.
Lestat slips closer, hiding in the bushes like some stray animal, ears attuned to every word. His mind continues to wander, lost in visions. Fangs pierce the soft flesh of lip, a desperate attempt to stiffie the pounding groan trying to work its way out of Lestat’s mouth.
He should leave — he should turn and walk away from the tempter laid before him, before his weak hands find themselves on soft skin. But Lestat is not a saint, and Louis is miles of unexplored skin and mind for him to travel and lose himself in.
So he lingers.
The street is quiet, the lamps along the road casting long, thin shadows across the garden walls. Hours slip by, but Lestat does not feel time in the way mortals do. He stands unmoving beneath the slow arch of the moon, listening to the rhythm of the house: Louis’ mother moving about in her kitchen, the light tread of his younger brother crossing the hall, the long pause of silence before a floorboard creaks again. And Louis, whose every sigh and restless shifting in bed Lestat can hear as if he were lying there beside him.
Finally, Lestat rises until he’s just outside the window. The blinds are half-drawn, the slats leaking moonlight in thin strips across the grass. He rests his hand on the frame, feeling the faint pulse of warmth where the wood has absorbed the heat of the day. A push and the shutter opens on its hinges.
The night air folds in around him as he slips inside. The room is quiet, except for the occasional creak of wood settling. The air is thick with the perfume of wax, ink, and beneath it — the living scent of Louis.
It curls through the bedroom, an intoxicating scent. Warm skin and clean linen, the faint salt of dried sweat, and something subtler, and earthier, that clings to him no matter how he tries to wash it away. Lestat inhales it as though it might sustain him more than any blood.
He lingers a moment in the shadows. Louis lies sprawled across the bed, half tangled in sheets that look too rough against his fine skin. His chest rises and falls in slow rhythm, lips parted just enough for breath to pass. The softest sound escapes him now and then, a whisper of air, as if even in sleep he cannot quite surrender to peace.
Lestat moves forward, his steps noiseless, a true predator stalking its prey. He trails a gaze down the length of Louis’ form, drinking him in. The sharp line of his jaw softened by slumber. The hands — beautiful, delicate hands — that rest curled against the sheets, fingers twitching faintly as though in the grasp of some dream. The pulse that flutters in his throat, visible beneath skin.
Closer still. The scent grows stronger, enveloping him, and he cannot resist leaning over, inhaling at the hollow of Louis’ neck where the sheet has slipped low. It is the perfume of temptation itself. He can almost taste more of the fevered thoughts Louis hides from the world. The shame, the want, and even the prayers he does not believe will cleanse him.
Lestat bends, studying every detail of the sleeping man’s face. The slight wrinkle between his brows that never seem to leave, even in rest. The way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, too long, too fine for a man so determined to despise beauty in himself.
And oh, how Lestat aches to touch him.
He lets his fingers hover, savoring the pain of restraint. Then, with the care of one afraid to break something sacred, he lowers his hand to Louis’ hair. Soft curls slide against his skin, dark brown and coarse at the roots, feather-light at the tips. He smooths them apart until he touches the bare flesh of Louis’ scalp, massaging the skin there.
The touch does not stir him, not yet. Louis only exhales, his chest lifting, and Lestat feels the faint brush of warm breath against the back of his wrist. That alone is nearly enough to undo him.
His hand drifts lower, mapping the planes of Louis’ cheek, tracing the proud line of bone, the softness at the corner of his jaw. He lingers there, thumb brushing lightly over skin that is warm and human. Every pulse beneath it sings to him, draws him closer.
The sheet has slipped lower, baring one shoulder. A stretch of untouched skin begging for hands. Lestat’s fingers follow the slope of it, gliding over the collarbone, pressing faintly as though memorizing each ridge, each hollow. His palm fits over the curve of Louis’ shoulder, the heat of living flesh searing against his cooler hand.
Louis stirs faintly, a twitch of his hand against the sheets, but does not wake. Lestat freezes, caught between guilt and greed, and then, unable to stop himself, he leans nearer. He lets his lips hover there, close enough that the whisper of breath could be mistaken for a dream.
“Mon Louis.” He whispers it softly, so softly the sound barely leaves him. His hand cups Louis’ throat now, cradling rather than grasping, feeling the delicate flutter of the pulse beneath. It is a rhythm more intoxicating than any music, and his thumb strokes idly over it, each beat temptation.
The sheets fall a little further, exposing more of that golden skin. Lestat traces down, fingertips grazing along the edge of Louis’ chest, following the rise and fall of slumbering breath. He should stop, he knows he should. But he has already crossed into worship, and worship demands touch.
The sheets slip lower beneath Lestat’s hand, baring more of Louis’ chest. His skin is pliant under his touch, the heart beneath it steady. But then, like a chord struck too suddenly, something else begins to hum beneath the surface.
It starts faint, a shimmer against Lestat’s senses — dream-light bleeding out from behind that smooth brow. He leans closer, and the impressions grow stronger. Flashes, disjointed and fleeting. A press of skin against skin. The weight of hands pinning down a body.
Shame.
The echo of gasps muffled by something.
Lestat closes his eyes, sinking into the feeling. The dream is formless. No lover’s face appears, only hands, mouths, and a body moving with his — against his. He sees Louis writhe beneath touches, sees him open beneath the faceless press of another. A hunger buried so deep it breaks loose only when his waking mind is lost in sleep.
Louis shifts faintly in the sheets, thighs tightening, hips lifting as though seeking relief. A flush spreads across his throat, down his chest, a bloom of heat that draws Lestat’s hand lower without thought. The pulse has quickened. His breath comes shorter, a man coming undone even in his dreams.
And Lestat knows now what it is. Un rêve humide, unfolding in silence.
The scent changes, unmistakable now, laced with the musk of arousal. It mingles with the warm salt of his skin, drifting up to Lestat like incense. He inhales deeply, savoring it, dizzy with the thought that even Louis’ most secret dreams betray him.
The visions flicker again — Louis turning his face away, struggling, then surrendering to the faceless, nameless touch. Hands everywhere, mouths everywhere. Pure desire, stripped of conscience.
Lestat watches for a moment, thinking back to Louis' earlier fantasy in the park. A shock of arousal flows through him, alongside a childish burst of jealousy.
Lestat smiles, then places his cool palm flat against the heated skin of Louis' chest, right over the frantic beat of his heart, and allows himself another moment to feel the pulse leap under his touch.
Intent, he lets his mind probe deeper, slipping past the fragile veil of sleep like a shadow through fog.
Open, he commands silently, his thoughts weaving into the chaotic waves of Louis' subconscious. Let me take that fire you keep buried Louis, and shape it into something magnificent.
The dream, once a swirling mass of dark shadows and anonymous cravings, begins to yield under Lestat's influence.
The faceless hands that had groped and pinned Louis in his slumber now take on definition, their touches sharpening into the insistent grasp of Lestat's own fingers.
Louis startles, a gasp tearing from his throat as those phantom fingers trace the sharp angle of his jaw, tilting his head back to bare the long line of his neck. The touch is cool, almost chilling against the feverish heat of his skin, sending shivers cascading down his spine.
Lestat mirrors the motion precisely, his own fingers gliding along that same path, nails lightly scraping the stubble there, drawing a faint tremor from Louis' sleeping form. The human whimpers softly, his body shifting restlessly, legs parting just a fraction as his cock hardens further, tenting the thin sheet that barely covers his hips.
The scent of Louis' arousal intensifies, a sharp, musky tang that floods Lestat's senses, making his own fangs ache with need.
He inhales deeply, savoring the raw evidence of Louis' vulnerability, then slides his hand lower, cupping the rigid length of Louis' cock through the fabric. He squeezes with measured pressure, feeling the heat radiate through the cotton, the vein along the shaft pulsing against his palm.
Louis' hips twitch upward instinctively, seeking more, and in the dream, the fantasy escalates.
Lestat straddles Louis' waist with predatory grace, his thighs clamping down on either side of Louis' hips. The vampire's weight presses him into the mattress, unyielding yet thrilling, and Lestat grinds forward slowly, his clothed erection rubbing against Louis' bare cock in a slow drag that builds friction.
Louis' hands fly up to clutch at Lestat's shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle there, but he can't push away, only pull closer.
Lestat leans down until his lips hover over Louis’ ear, his breath cool. “You dream of me like this, Louis? I did not imagine you so dirty, I’d only hoped.”
Louis shudders beneath him, his fingers tightening on Lestat’s shoulders. “Lestat? What are you….” Louis’ voice breaks, panic settling. “You’re just—”
Lestat smiles against Louis’ neck, his hips roll again, obscene. “You imagine me as temptation itself.”
Louis tries to turn his head away, but Lestat’s hand catches his jaw, forcing him to look up. “Get outta my head.” Louis whispers, eyes dark and dazed.
“Ahhh, my dear Louis, so defiant and shamefaced.” Lestat purrs, tilting his face closer until their lips nearly touch. “If you didn’t want me here, you would have awoken.”
Louis’ breath hitches, the dream pressing down on him like a weight he can’t fight. “You some kinda demon? Comin’ in my dreams like this, messing with my head.” He manages, his voice shaking.
Lestat laughs softly, cruel and fond all at once. “This is my first time inside this pretty head of yours sweet Louis, but I am happy to know I’ve occupied your mind before.”
He grinds again, drawing another involuntary moan from Louis’ throat. “I hear you call to me nightly, my restraint — although fragile — has been your savior, but tonight I could not resist your precious chirps. You think I don’t hear it? How you crave me, how you try to pray me away.”
Louis squeezes his eyes shut, as if that could undo the pleasure coursing through him. “Stop. Get out my fucking head!”
Lestat’s fangs graze his throat, not piercing, only tracing. “Say it like you mean it.” He whispers. “Or I’ll take your silence as consent.”
Louis opens his mouth to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a strangled gasp as Lestat presses harder, the friction unbearable now, and even more devastating.
The vampire's hips roll in lazy circles, the rough weave of his pants scraping teasingly against Louis' sensitive skin, making his balls tighten with anticipation.
Precum slicks the tip of Louis' cock, smearing between them with each pass, and he moans, the sound echoing strangely in the dream, muffled by walls that seem to close in.
Lestat's hand in reality responds, slipping beneath the sheet to wrap directly around the throbbing cock, skin on skin now. He strokes upward with agonizing slowness, his thumb swirling over the wet head, collecting the bead of fluid and spreading it down the length in firm, twisting pulls that make Louis' breath hitch audibly.
Deeper into the dream Lestat delves, his projections layering erotic intent on top of erotic intent. He drapes his body fully over Louis now, chest pressing flush against chest, the coolness of his undead skin contrasting sharply with the human's own warmth.
Lestat’s fangs appear once more — long points that glide along the pounding pulse at Louis’ throat, still not piercing, but tracing the vein with feather-light pressure, promising the pain to come.
Louis shudders violently, his neck arching to offer more, even as a thread of fear-laced desire knots in his gut.
“Oh, mon coeur, I should have done this the moment I saw you.”
Matching the fantasy, Lestat's free hand trails downward from Louis' hip, fingers skimming the inner thigh before dipping between his legs.
He presses one fingertip against the puckered ring of Louis' ass, circling the tight entrance with gentle insistence, feeling the muscle clench and flutter under the touch.
No penetration yet — just the teasing pressure, the hint of invasion that makes Louis' thighs tense and his cock leak more profusely into Lestat's stroking fist.
In the dream, this translates to Lestat's hands roaming freely: one pinning Louis' wrist above his head, the other kneading the firm globe of his ass, spreading him open to the cool air. Louis writhes, his body a live wire of sensation, hips bucking to chase the fullness he craves.
Lestat infuses the dream with his deepest hunger now, the allure of transformation, the ultimate possession.
He envisions himself mounting Louis completely, shifting to kneel between the human's spread thighs, guiding his own thick cock — freed from his pants, veined and rigid — to nudge insistently against that prepared entrance.
The blunt head breaches Louis shallowly at first, just the tip pushing past the resistant ring, stretching him with a burn that teeters on the edge of too much. He gasps, toes curling into the sheets, as Lestat thrusts in incrementally — another inch, then pause, letting the fullness sink in, the ridges of the vampire's shaft dragging against sensitive walls.
“No… Lestat! This ain’t right.”
Lestat leans down, feeling himself slide that much deeper, feeling the way Louis shakes and whimpers with the motion.
“Even in slumber you deny yourself. Tell me Louis, what will it take for you to surrender?”
Louis shakes his head, eyes screwed shit tightly. “You’re the devil, you gotta be. Tempting me like this, trickin’ my mind, taking over my body.”
Lestat presses himself closer, until his nose once again brushes the skin of the humans’ neck.
“If you say stop, truly ask me, I will obey and you will not remember the unpleasantness of this dream. But if you say nothing….”
He allows the words to hang between them and takes a moment, keeping his face hidden. Lestat feels Louis' breath hitch again, another tremor starting anew, but he does not hear a request for pause.
Lestat smiles and lifts himself once more.
His hips begin to snap forward in controlled, shallow pumps that build the pressure without granting release. The room fills with the wet sounds of their fucking, Louis' moans start up, a loud, desperate cry.
Reality echoes the torment: Lestat's strokes on Louis' cock quicken, while his nails rake down the human's side.
The tips break skin in thin lines, crimson beads welling up instantly, the metallic scent blooming sharp and intoxicating. Lestat leans down, his tongue darting out to lap at one of those fresh scratches on Louis' ribcage, the warm blood coating his taste buds like honey. He savors it, sucking lightly at the wound, drawing out more with gentle pulls that make Louis' body jolt in sleep.
Nails dig deeper into Louis' hips as he fucks in with more depth, breaking the skin in parallel scratches that weep blood, slicking the path where their bodies slap together.
Louis cries out, the pain twisting into burning pleasure as Lestat's tongue follows every mark, lapping broad stripes across his chest, circling a nipple before sucking it into his mouth, fangs grazing the hardened peak without drawing blood there.
All the while, Lestat's cock plunges deeper, filling Louis to the brim, grinding against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind his eyelids. The rhythm is torturously unhurried, each withdrawal pulling whimpers from Louis' lips, each re-entry slamming home with a wet squelch that vibrates through the bedroom.
Louis' physical body mirrors the escalating frenzy, his hips lifting off the mattress in shallow thrusts, chasing the dual torment of Lestat's hand and the invading dream.
Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temples, and his cock throbs insistently in Lestat’s grasp, veins standing out as pre-cum flows steadily.
Lestat's fangs now graze Louis' shoulder, scraping along the collarbone to leave faint red trails that sting deliciously. He still doesn't bite — not yet — teasing himself and testing his own patience. But the promise hangs heavy, his tongue soothing each abrasion with long, languid licks that trace the salt and blood mingled on the skin. Louis arches into it, his hands fisting the sheets, begging incoherently for more, the faceless desire and shame of before fully replaced by Lestat's commanding presence.
Lestat pins Louis down completely, cock buried to the hilt in one fluid thrust. He grinds in deep, circular motions, his pubic bone rubbing against Louis' trapped cock, the friction igniting sparks that curl low into his belly.
Fangs hover at Louis’ throat again, closer now, the points dimpling the skin as Lestat's nails score fresh lines down Louis' skin — deep enough to draw rivulets of blood that trickle between them, lubricating their slide. The bedroom spins, colors bleeding, the air humming with the pulse of impending change. Louis' body convulses, inner walls clenching around the invading shaft, his own release hovering just out of reach as Lestat draws it out, thrusts getting lazier, probing every inch.
Blood from the scratches smear across their joined bodies, and Lestat's tongue laps it greedily —- Louis' shoulder, down his chest, even dipping to taste where it pools at his navel. Each lick sends jolts through Louis' form, heightening the stretch of Lestat's cock inside him, the slap of balls against ass growing slicker and louder.
Louis begs now, words forming in the haze: ‘Fuck. Please, don’t stop — More.’ Craving the unknown, something that would bind him forever.
Lestat's control breaks at the edges, his own arousal straining painfully against his pants, but he prolongs the agony, making Louis' dream teeter on the brink.
His hand pumps Louis' cock with firmer twists, thumb pressing into the slit to coax more fluid, while his other fingers tease the rim of Louis' ass, dipping a bit more inside to mirror the dream's penetration. Louis’ whimpers escalate to desperate keens, his body trembling, thighs quaking as the edge approaches.
Louis fractures under the pressure — walls fluttering, cock spurting precum in warning — Lestat surrenders to the temptation.
Fangs plunge into the tender flesh of Louis' neck in a swift, stab, piercing vein and muscle in one motion. Blood floods hot and sweet into Lestat's mouth, the bedroom exploding in light as he drinks deep, gulping the life essence while his cock thrusts erratically, chasing his companion’s orgasm.
“What the fuck!“
Louis convulses around him, ass clenching in rhythmic spasms, his orgasm tearing through like wildfire. Come jetting from his cock in thick ropes that paint his stomach and Lestat's hand. The turning begins, waves of searing pleasure rewriting Louis' veins, making him eternal in that moment of surrender.
In the waking world, Lestat's hand flies over Louis' shaft, milking every drop as the human comes undone, body arching off the bed with a strangled cry, the dream's pleasure bleeding into their reality.