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“Damn, baby boy, you look good…” Louis de Pointe du Lac purrs as he wraps his arms around a narrow, corset-clad waist. “Don’t know why, but that makeup’s got me feelin’ some kind of way…”
Said makeup, currently adorning the beautiful face of Lestat de Lioncourt, constitutes a bit of a departure from the glam-vampire-kitsch look he typically affects for his performances… in fact, it glows with an almost Victorian-Valentine innocence, except for…
“Must be the new lipstick, cher,” the vampire smirks, his fangs flashing especially pearly within the Hammer-horror-blood-red. “Bet I know where you’d like to see it, non?”
“Oh?” Louis prompts, letting his fingertips venture beneath the corset’s upper edge, which barely conceals a pair of perfect pink nipples while nuzzling a long neck.
“Oui,” Lestat’s sigh already sensual, “You want that color… from my lips,” even standing, he manages to grind his ass on Louis’ lap, “forming a perfect ‘O’ around,” the older vampire undulates his torso like a dancer beneath his lover’s worshipful hands, “the base of your thick…” the hands reach his hips, “gorgeous…” a strategic push backwards into an already-awake bulge, “cock…”
The younger immortal deliberately starts to palm Lestat through the tight leather-and-lace of his pants. “Yeah, baby? And am I about to get it?” His companion lays a large, pale hand over a smaller, darker one to guide his caresses, but…
“No.” Les smirks, in full-on Brat Prince mode. “Alas, The Vampire Lestat must go onstage for his beloved fans minutes from now,” yellow curls nod toward the sounds of the opening act, the rumble of the crowd, so nearby, “and he must keep his face - and voice - pristine, so I’m not doing - that.”
“What ain’t you doin, honeychild, tell me…” Du Lac urges, spinning his partner around to stand face-to-face… and, he realizes, in full view of the half-open dressing room door.
“The Vampire Lestat”, in all his glam-rock glory, rubs on him, front-to-front, lips hovering millimeters apart, just short of kissing. “Well, for starters,” he hums, “I won’t get on my knees for you: right here, right now…”
“You mean, like this?” Louis slides, sultry, down his rockstar’s front, till he is gazing up at him from between his platform heels.
“Oui… and then, though it pains me to leave you so hard and aching,” sharp fangs worry a painted bottom lip, “I won’t release you from those too-tight trousers, so I can - oh, Lou…”
Someone has no right to talk about “too tight,” the beautiful Creole thinks as he works on getting access to that massive bulge. At home, he’d simply rip those slutty pants apart… luckily, vampire fingers are both swift and dexterous, more than equal to the task. He strokes his ever-eager lover as he asks, “And then, I guess you don’t intend to…” instead of finishing the sentence, the Creole vampire puts his mouth to better use: sliding it round Lestat’s considerable girth, slowly but implacably…
“Ah! No, cher, I can’t,” the Frenchman’s voice begins to lose control, “can’t take you in my mouth, all the way from tip to base in one long, smooth movement… till your divine head… brushes the back of my throat…”
Louis’ contribution to the conversation becomes a bit less eloquent (“Uhh - Lusstuhh…mmmff…”) as he gets a dick which, a century later, still startles him with its size and beauty, further in his mouth… but he likes to think Les understands just fine, judging by the way the latter’s breathing hard, his lustful-reverent expression…
‘And I won’t… won’t let you… oh… pull my hair a little… as you fuck my mouth - Louis, Louis, you’re so good,” the narrow hips thrust forward, just enough aggression to make his head spin, not enough to hurt, “rough just the way I need it, but never too much… my sweet lover; you make me feel so safe even as you take control… wish I could let you now… ah, mon etoile du soir…”
Louis has started sucking off Lestat fast and sloppy, with far more passion than finesse, but they both love that… They’re so loud, surely anyone nearby can hear them now, he thinks, and finds he likes it: let them - the band, the roadies, Daniel, everyone - hear how he loves his man, how Les sounds as he moans…
“But, no, my love, I can’t… can’t make that little choking noise you love… so much… as I deep-throat… your beautiful, big cock… until I feel the…”
“2 minutes, Lioncourt!” three voices call in unison as Lestat’s bandmates stick their heads through the dressing room door. They freeze for about a second, then break out into wild grins and wolf whistles as they take in the scene before them. Alex and Larry’s rambunctious, “Yeah! Get it!” mingles with Tough Cookie’s giggling, “Hi, Louis!”
Lestat de Lioncourt barely misses a beat: merely blows them all a kiss before turning back to his beloved with a rapt expression and a half-moan of, “Till I feel the… the rush… of your… love… white-hot, down… down my… my throat…”
Something about the dirty words; getting caught; the wantonness of it all, sweeps up the younger vampire like a wave, and, with an inevitably muffled cry, Louis comes, hard, in his pants.
Lestat will follow any second now, maybe a few more sucks… but, even in his passion, he looks way too smug. Du Lac pulls back with an obscene, wet squelch, causing his maker to groan in denial; vampire-fast, he tucks the throbbing length neatly back inside those tight pants.
“Mon coeur - did you?” De Lioncourt’s smile spreads gleefully across his pretty face.
“Yeah, sweet boy, I just did…” the younger man’s tone soft and loose in the afterglow, “But you don’t get to, not until…” He cuts himself off, springing to his feet and patting Lestat’s bum as he lightly shoves him toward the door. “Now, get that pretty ass of yours onstage… and I’ll be right here when it’s time to do your costume change… waiting…” With that enticing promise and one last burning glance over his shoulder, the rockstar happily flounces off.
As the crowd roars out its excitement at the band’s appearance, Louis uses the dressing room’s en-suite to clean up a little and change his trousers (since their reunion, he’s learned to stash at least 1 pair in every place he and Les intend to spend more than 5 minutes together). Presentable again, he hums along contentedly to the opening number: so far, his plan for the night has come together… rather well.
They’d worked on this, as they do on any thorny issue these days: during tiring but productive, and ultimately healing, sessions with Dr. Goldberg, till they arrived at a solution. Louis had eventually understood the legitimacy of Lestat’s emotions: how his partner/husband’s unwillingness to publicly acknowledge his relationship with “The Vampire Lestat” made him feel as if the former might be ashamed of him, either personally or professionally. Lestat, in turn, had grasped that Louis’ reluctance lay, instead, in his ambivalence about the spotlight and fear of the publicity putting his other half in danger by association. That last hurdle proved the toughest; in the end, both vampires had agreed to slowly make their romance so apparent to the mortal public that any vampires wishing to harm them would (hopefully) judge it not worth the risk of unwanted attention. As for the rest… He’d accompanied Les for the majority of his tour (after concluding business of his own), in a special section of the audience at some of the smaller, more intimate venues, but, at the larger ones (such as tonight’s), preferring to remain backstage awaiting the performers’ triumphant return. Speaking of…
His maker dashes, at a speed humanly plausible (but just barely) back into the dressing room, stripping off his first costume on the go during a brief animated film (created by Armand, and included by TVL’s frontman with begrudging recognition of its brilliance) in favor of Costume #2, a fashion-doll-esque confection of hot pink, feathers and sparkle complete with crotchless fishnets and frilly, flouncy skirt. Before that falls into place, Louis is most satisfied to see his Brat Prince still (or, maybe, once again) half-mast with interest. “Was it… hard performing, baby?” he inquires nonchalantly, chuckling at his own double entendre.
“Yes, Beautiful One,” Lestat flutters his lashes, “I ached so much for you…”
“Good.” Louis du Lac makes his voice no-nonsense as he gestures to the busy vanity. “Time for Part 2, my love. Bend over.”
He swears his little Method actor can blush on command… but it’s still not convincing. “But what about,” the Frenchman coyly gestures to the young stylist who, having just finished helping the star dress, is still very much in the room.
“What about ‘im?” the Billionaire Boyfriend (as he’s dubbed by some mortals on the tour) shrugs. He’s lately noted that the boy - Alain, maybe? - not only harbours a more-than-average crush on his man, but is also responsible for the recent disappearance of Lestat’s black lace thong, rather a favorite of Louis’, “lost” after they’d made love among the set pieces some three venues back. Monsieur de Pointe du Lac, with the benefit of therapy and quite secure in their relationship, had confined his reaction to giving the offender a nearly negligible bite (hey, the kid does his job well, and that matters to Les); but now, he sees the perfect opportunity to give the boy some fuel for his fantasies while making it abundantly clear just how things stand.
“He can take off, or stay and watch for all I care,” he drawls, “what’s it to you? I said, bend the fuck over.”
Lestat obeys. Louis unceremoniously hikes his skirt up to his little waist with one hand while pulling his fuschia g-string down with the other. The view of those toned, thrilling thighs and stupefying ass, framed by pink, sparkly fishnets… well. He lets maybe-Alain get one good peek at what he’ll never get to touch before sinking down with his face in between those sweet cheeks.
“So pretty,” Louis murmurs, planting sweet little kisses onto the cool skin, “If you insist on dressing like a girl, I’m gonna lick you like one…” His tongue licks a long stripe against the tight, quivering hole, again and again, slow and teasing a few times before launching into a full-on assault of fast, merciless flicks, the kind only a vampire could muster (the poor stylist has already fled, the tools of his trade held clumsily in front of his lap, so there’s no need to pretend)... Les gouges the vanity with his sharp nails, shivers, moans - high-pitched and feminine; his thong’s front got caught on his erection and is getting soaked in pre-come by the second… His fledgling takes him to the very edge of orgasm, before - just in the nick of time, the animation’s ending - withdrawing, pulling all the clothes back into place and, with a chaste little peck on the flushed cheek, whispering, “Go get ‘em, Princess… Be good, and next time - I make you come.” The rockstar - breathless, flushed, more beautiful than ever - leaves with distinctly shaky legs and pink cartoon hearts blooming where his eyes should be.
Louis de Pointe du Lac half-listens to the familiar set to get a sense of time, but he has other preparations to complete. His stomach flutters with a pleasant nervousness - tonight will be a big night for both of them. “I love, I love it, I love it!” The Vampire Lestat’s manager had shrieked when they first approached her with the idea: why not capitalize on public speculation about the identity of the frontman’s mysterious muse “Louis” by hinting and teasing throughout the tour, adding up to the grand reveal… Surprisingly, the stunt-that’s-not-really-a-stunt has gone off without a hitch, even its latest step, the taped “interview” broadcast with Louis’ voice disguised, his image a blurred silhouette… (“That was fire! I love it! Masterful - the way you both play up the vampire thing so well with a straight face”). But tonight, the final show, intentionally booked at the (sold out) Caesars Superdome in their beloved New Orleans, all tickets affordably priced for Lestat’s ordinary fans, chosen by lottery, and all proceeds earmarked to benefit Covenant House New Orleans… tonight, Louis de Pointe du Lac will finally step onto the stage hand in hand with his…
The audience’s euphoric cacophony vibrates his bones, their emotion nearly sweeping him away. So, the performance has crescendoed; a brief break, the eagerly awaited encore, and then…
The gliding footsteps he’s know anywhere as his triumphant rockstar sails into the dressing room, calling out, “Louis! Cher?”
With a smile in his voice, he answers, “Lestat. Come.”
Obediently, his maker follows the sound into the tiny en-suite and… stops in his tracks.
Louis perches on the narrow white counter, his outfit hung up oh-so-neatly on the wall hook, wearing nothing but a loving, eager smile. His hand is between his own thighs, sensuously caressing, yearning for his man’s embrace, the consummation of the hunger, the love he sees reflected in a pair of ocean eyes. “Come ‘ere, Les baby,” he croons, extending his arms, “We only got a couple of minutes, and you’ve waited so long… So now you’re gonna come - and you’re gonna do it in me.” The Creole casually lifts one foot onto the counter to reveal the way his hole’s deliciously filled with his favorite, slicked-up toy, totally ready…
Lestat sheds his outrageous costume lightning-fast and kisses his beloved tenderly while picking him up in his arms, as easily as a doll. Achingly hard and frantic though he must be after getting teased all night, still the older vampire takes the time to slick himself with the conveniently nearby lube. Louis encourages his companion with soft words, with strong legs wrapped around his waist; finally, he slowly draws out the toy and sinks onto something that’s longer, thicker, better, a marvel seemingly put on this Earth only to fill him and delight him.
Vampiric strength can truly be a blessing - like now, when Lestat effortlessly supports a grown man’s weight merely by cupping his fledgling’s firm, round ass, when Louis braces his palms on the counter to smoothly set the rhythm of their fucking. They couldn’t, even if they had the time, possibly make this last: already, two sets of eyes blow black with lust; already, the blond’s sensual mouth has formed its signature perfect “o” to signal a building climax…
“Yes, baby boy, inside me, honey, please, together…” Louis babbles between kisses… and Lestat doesn’t even thrust - only buries himself deep inside his soulmate, shivering as he releases with a musical chant of his beloved’s name. The other vampire answers with “Les, Les, love, love you…” and splashes his own release over their bellies.
From the stage, chants for an encore come ever louder and more eager; no time for cuddling or even proper cleaning. But Louis du Lac doesn’t mind: merely purrs, “Plug me up, baby,” into damp blond curls and, at top vampire speed (and that is saying something) swipes baby wipes across their bodies before helping Lestat don his last costume of the night: Louis’ hand-selected favorite, a gender-and-time-defying, Mozart-at-Pride visual poem of angelic white. The rockstar gives one twirl and calls, “See you onstage, mon vie!” before flying - quite literally flying into the spotlight to the cheers of fans going wild over the (bless their mortal hearts) special effects.
Louis de Pointe du Lac waits in the wings, in love and so excited despite having to do the full gamut of Dr. Goldberg’s breathing exercises to contain his nerves. As the romantic power ballad soars, crescendoes, then gives way to an ovation, a red beam searches out his poised form as De Lioncourt’s voice - magnified in a way no microphone can manage - announces, “And now, my dear, lovely LeStans… at last, as promise, let me introduce to you my sweet companion heart… my love… my muse… my - Louis de Pointe du Lac!”
On cue, he runs - soars - across the stage, only slowing down enough not to outrun the sanguine spotlight till it blends with Lestat’s snow-white one till they stand together, bathed in a rose glow, bathed in their shared scent of recent sex, bodies entwining as though the screaming throng did not exist. When their lips break apart (yeah, he’s definitely smeared with the performer’s lipstick, but finds he doesn’t care), Louis takes the mic.
“Thank you; thank you for the warm welcome, the love you’ve given my Lestat,” he begins. “So, let’s make it official - yes, I am that Louis, from Daniel Molloy’s book… and, as such, I can assure you: the book, the songs, my story, Lestat’s story - yes, it is all true.” Deafening cheers, though belief and doubt radiate equally from the myriad mortals’ minds. Louis holds up his shining-nailed hand for relative quiet.
“And, if I may try your patience just a little longer… I’d like to make something else official also. You see,” he lets his eyes sweep over the audience before turning to Lestat alone, “I love this man. It took me too damn long to see it, but - I love you, baby, and the cord that binds us is the greatest gift of my eternity. You call me many things, sweet boy: love, muse, companion, cher… a few things not exactly meant for other ears,” laughs and wolf whistles, “but, I would like, if you’re OK with it, to call you - publicly, as simple fact - what I have called you in my heart since 1910.” And The Vampire Lestat’s adoring eyes go wide as Louis, sinking to one knee in one smooth motion, simply states, “I want to call you ‘husband’.” A cafe-au-lait hand trembles, holding up a golden band set with 3 stones: one vivid green, one dazzling blue, the third, cut into a blood-red heart between them… No one has frozen time, but utter, breathless, still silence reigns as tear-stained eyes gaze up at tear-stained eyes and Louis de Pointe du Lac’s voice trembles as he asks, “Lestat de Lioncourt… Will you marry me?”