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He’s sore. He’s tired. He hasn’t been doing much of anything, and he’s tired. He waddles from one room in the townhouse to the other, and it exhausts him. He wades through the bookshelves (and now the book piles) to find something new to read, and his energy is sapped; brain fizzing, feet swelling, back aching.
Lestat has been giving him lots of books, he’s actually quite impressed the bookstore hasn’t run out of them, and is growing somewhat suspicious of where all of these books are being sourced. Is Lestat robbing personal libraries nowadays? Has he ventured into cat burglar territory?
What a droll thought that is. Lestat’s prowess would fly out the window amidst his excitement and he would become nothing less than a bull in a China shop, surely alerting the entire block of his crimes, never mind the homeowners.
Louis is pushing eight months pregnant. Lestat swears he’s glowing, but he certainly doesn’t feel like it. If anything, he feels like a black cloud. His stomach is round, he can no longer see his thighs underneath it. His tits are swollen, sore, the areolas engorged.
The biggest ache is that he’s been sequestered away in the townhouse for about 6 months; he’s going stir crazy, he’s ready to tear up his books, maybe strangle Lestat, definitely rip off all the wallpaper and replace it.
He feels like he’s been pregnant for decades, which is actually quite amusing considering when he’d begged Lestat for this baby, he’d sworn that sequestering himself away for nine months was nothing.
What is nine months to a vampire, Lestat?
It admittedly didn’t take much convincing on Louis’ part, Lestat was all too happy to give him the pregnancy. He was all too happy that night they’d made her - at least the night Louis thinks they made her - to lavish his love over Louis' stomach, chest, thighs, telling him how beautiful he’ll look pregnant, how easy he’ll take.
Louis was not wholly prepared to ride the highs and lows of the hormones forcing him to bend and snap at their will.
He laughs when Lestat isn’t trying to be funny, he bursts into tears when he is. He picked a fight just a week or so ago because Lestat had a window cracked and the wind was just a little too chilly for him. He picked a fight a couple months ago because he had to go back to eating humans; he’s eating for two now. He picked a fight when Lestat thought he looked pretty in his robe. He didn’t feel pretty.
He finds himself waddling again. He’s waddling to shelve his latest read, chewed through in just a couple nights. He’s sighing to himself, grumbling something, whining about nothing. He can’t fit into any of his binders anymore, his chest is too big, too achy, and he feels like some kind of rare whale flopping miserably, beached out on a deserted island.
Louis is wearing one of Lestat’s nightshirts because the chest and shoulders are broader. He has it buttoned only halfway to allow his belly to protrude freely. His puffy nipples are starkly visible behind the satin blend fabric.
Lestat opens the front door, babbling something.
Louis turns his head to look.
“And then I said, oh monsieur! Is that the pot not calling the kettle black?!”
Louis does not laugh.
Lestat clears his throat and clasps his hands in front of him, the coupling hanging low. His expression is meek.
“Well. It seems I have not executed this English…Comment dit-on… Idiom, properly. Perhaps sent it to execution.”
Louis slides the book back into its place on the shelf.
He’s no longer looking at Lestat, but hears footsteps behind him, approaching him.
“Mon cher,” Lestat says softly, coming up to Louis’ back and wrapping his arms around him. His chin rests atop a shoulder.
“Si beau, my Louis, my beautiful beloved,” He praises.
Louis just sighs.
“I peed myself earlier, Lestat,” He says, flat, annoyed.
“Oh?”
“I couldn’t get up those damn stairs!”
Lestat’s hands rest on Louis’ exposed stomach, rubbing his palms softly over the warm skin. He likes when he can feel the baby move, when Louis lies down and lets him put his ear there, or his hand, feeling the little kicks.
He wants to laugh, he’s barely biting it back, but knows that if he does, it may very well be the point in which Louis snaps and finally strikes him across the face. What a tragedy that would be, a blow to his devastatingly handsome face. His lip quivers trying to restrain himself.
“I peed myself,” Louis repeats, and then as if his emotions are cabled to a light switch, he bursts into tears. Big, wet tears accompanied by deep, rolling sobs.
Lestat desperately wants to laugh, but he does no such thing.
Poor Louis.
“Oh chéri,” Lestat says softly, nosing against Louis’ ear, and then to his hair. All of those hormones are doing wonders for that beautiful hair, it’s so shiny, so soft.
“Pissed myself like a goddamn dog,” Louis sobs, gripping Lestat’s arms as they hold him.
“Can’t get up the damn stairs, can’t get down the damn stairs, feet so damn big I gotta wear your slippers-,” He chokes.
It’s really not a big deal, if anything, it actually is funny. But Louis sobs harder.
Just barely, Lestat suppresses a snicker. Though some noise must have slipped out after all, because Louis’ head jerks to the side to look over his shoulder.
“Lestat!” He blubbers.
That’s when Lestat bursts into wild shrills of manic laughter. He holds Louis tighter, preventing his husband from trying to wriggle free and run (waddle) off.
“Louis!” He laughs harder.
Louis stops crying and sniffles, wiping furiously at his face with the back of his hand. The blood and tears smear and wet his skin.
“What’s so fuckin’ funny?”
Miraculously, Lestat’s laughter dies down into little giggles and he noses against the back of Louis’ neck.
“Rien. C’est rien,” He hums.
Lestat’s adoration swells, it froths and foams, it swirls in his chest and ebs out to fill his limbs.
“Louis, tu es si beau. You’re working so hard, hm?” His hands rub over Louis’ stomach again, cradling the bump there.
“My desire for you, it drives me mad, mes bébés sont à l'intérieur de toi, Louis,” He continues, mouthing at Louis’ ear.
Louis sniffles and scowls.
Lestat looks down and sees his husband is in fact wearing his slippers instead of his own. He takes no small amount of joy in that. The shirt Louis is wearing, he wants to carefully collect it once it has been shed and lock it away somewhere safe. He never wants it washed or worn again, he wants to preserve the memory, the smell , of Louis wearing it.
“I brought you a gift,” Lestat whispers. His voice is right up against Louis’ ear.
Once again, Louis feels compelled to cry. He’s not even sure why. Lestat gives him gifts all the time and he’s moments away from making good on the fantasy of killing his husband.
He turns around and throws his arms around Lestat. His pregnant belly is in the way, preventing them from being flush front to front, but Louis grabs at him anyways.
“You did?” He sobs. He’s crying again.
Lestat is grateful that he appears to have simply gotten off scot free for laughing. Louis has threatened to kill him twice this month, and he’s toeing the line now, playing with the boundaries of his own mortality.
How does he know he’s really immortal? Louis hasn’t gotten his hands on his neck.
Lestat nods and kisses on Louis’ face, hands roaming freely over his back, enjoying how his belly feels pressed between them. He loves hearing the baby swim about in the fluid that houses her. He loves saying that and having Louis tell him, “She ain’t swimmin’.”
“She?”
“I just know.”
This rabbit hole of thought is put to an abrupt halt when Louis whines at him. He’s more sniffling than crying now, and for a second time trying to wipe his face dry.
“Of course. Of course. You’re making my baby for me, hm?” Lestat says.
The gift. Where is it?
Louis pouts and nods, sticking out his bottom lip.
Possessive, Lestat’s hands rub at Louis’ stomach again.
“Mon bébé à l'intérieur de toi,” He hums.
Now Louis is growing impatient. He frowns, and leans in close against Lestat’s face, sniffing at his cheek.
Lestat freezes.
“You already said that,” Louis growls, peeved, the hormones flinging him in wild circles.
Lestat did say that. He can’t get enough of saying it - Louis’ belly is making his baby, his baby is inside of Louis. He loves how it tastes on his tongue when he says it aloud. He loves to look at Louis.
“Your gift,” He tries to redirect.
Louis is sniffing at him more attentively now.
“You been- You been drinkin’?” He demands.
Lestat gulps and tries to look innocent. How else is he supposed to cope with his very pregnant husband’s very unpredictable histrionics?
“Mm. Perhaps the man had a whiskey or two, yes.”
Louis’ face twists. His lips twitch and gums quiver, fangs extending.
As if on a perfectly planned cue (or perhaps at the behest of Lestat’s undeserved guardian angel), the front door swings open, and the force knocks the knob back against the wall.
Louis looks over, his eyes wild and fiery. He watches as a man, or rather a boy, stumbles into their foyer. The guy can’t be more than 22.
“Mr. Lestat,” The kid slurs. He’s got a dumb, happy grin on his face. His legs are wobbly underneath him. His intoxicated feet drag mud from his shoes on Louis’ nice floor.
Oh, Louis thinks, My husband wants me to kill him. He’s askin’ for it. All this is settin’ me up to kill him. I’m’on wring his fuckin’ neck out.
“Mr. Lestat- Sorry- I really gotta- Gotta pee-,” The kid giggles stupidly, and he looks startled to see Louis standing there, trying to straighten himself up on his legs.
Louis pushes Lestat off of him and marches over the drunken annoyance plaguing his home. He grabs the kid by that scrawny neck, which of course makes the kid throw his hands up in defense and blubber, confused, looking to Lestat for help. Lestat does not help him.
“You thought bringin’ me a wasted frat boy was a gift?” Louis demands, wrenching the boy’s face close, sniffing him.
He doesn’t need to get that close to smell the liquor, but now he’s angry, now he’s going to prove his point.
Lestat sort of considers Louis there, considers the boy who would in no version of this story make it out of 1132 Rue Royale alive, and considers his options.
“Oh dear, I don’t think a fraternity would take him,” He says. He purses his lips thoughtfully and shrugs some, and for a second time meekly clasps his hands together.
The boy is whimpering and clawing at Louis, visibly terrified and even amidst drunken stupor seeming to realize that Lestat is not going to help him. He’d been under the impression he was being lead to the lavish home to have some kind of threesome - or, well, Lestat had never actually said that, he’d lured him to the townhouse with the promise of more wine and the pretense that his wife is very pregnant and has certain needs.
The rage, it ripples over Louis’ features and once more Lestat is rendered almost to his knees with the beauty of such a look, the glow in his lover’s skin. Louis’ passion, in all its fever pitches, disarms him and commands his obsessions.
Louis’ nails dig into the young drunk’s neck, and he pulls him forward, sinking his fangs into the pulsing purple vein. The fear has spiked the adrenaline, elevated the blood pressure, and the blood gushes forth from the punctures. It floods Louis’ mouth, warm, thick, the taste of liquor coating his taste buds. At least it tastes like decent whiskey.
The sight of Louis feeding is divine. Lestat watches with an indulgent pleasure and for a moment forgets himself. He allows his eyes to drink Louis as Louis drinks the blood, forgets about his husband’s feral moodiness and expression of frustration for the gift.
The boy, he weakly grips and tugs and hits at Louis, but loses consciousness. Blood coats Louis’ chin. It runs down his neck, it seeps into the open collar of Lestat’s shirt. He looks radiant.
The body thuds to the hardwood floor, and Louis turns to Lestat. His chest heaves with the effort of labored, exacerbated breath. His eyes blaze with a fury clouded only by the relief of a small satiation to his hunger.
“You brought a drunk fuckin’ kid into my house, my house, while I’m shut up in here like your dirty little fuckin’ secret, pissin’ on the stairs!” Louis roars. “Then, then, you got the nerve to smell like- Like liquor-,”
Lestat’s pupils drown his irises. He can barely hear what Louis is saying.
All of those artists, the greats throughout history, their masterpieces and pièce de résistance homages to their muse, how did they create them? It perplexes Lestat. How could their works have been born if they had never seen Louis? A riddle to remain unsolved.
“Louis,” Lestat says softly. He is in awe. Louis’ bloody face, his puffy nipples under the fabric, his impregnated belly bare and perfect skin on display. Even the anger in Louis’ eyes, it is dizzying to behold.
“ Louis?!” Louis yells. He drags his arm across his face, effectively smearing the blood over a cheek. Lestat feels weak.
“You tryna get drunk so you can just check out while I’m here- Pregnant- While I’m here growin’ your baby and you, you out there runnin’ ‘round suckin’ off frat boys and-,” He raves, hands wildly flailing in articulation, fangs still extended while his jaws gnash.
For a second time, Lestat is not listening. His own fangs push against his bottom lip. He is held hostage there under Louis’ gaze and inflammatory chastising. His eyes, they sparkle with adoration, his head cocks slightly to observe Saint Louis with unyielding devotion.
Suddenly, there is something flying past Lestat’s head, dangerously close to hitting him. He narrowly avoids the blow, ducking with just enough time to avoid the impact to his face. Whatever Louis threw at him hits the floor with a thud, and Lestat’s eyes widen still.
Something else comes flying his way.
“Chéri!” He pleads, realizing that Louis threw a book at him first and when there wasn’t another book to throw, he threw a small, decorative statue from the end table.
Lestat holds his hands up in defense.
“You the Devil, Lestat! You did this to me! Knocked me up like this!” Louis yells, stalking towards his husband now.
He grabs Lestat’s face in his hands, and with no hesitation, leans into his neck and sinks his teeth in. Lestat, stunned and simultaneously grateful, just moans and grabs Louis’ shoulders, fisting handfuls of the fabric beneath his fingers. One hand migrates to clasp around the back of Louis’ neck. His face twists in pain, Louis is chewing at him, drinking him in.
Thank you, Louis. You are right, I am the Devil and I do not deserve you! I did do this to you!
The bite is vicious. Louis huffs through his nose and latches his jaws tighter to Lestat’s neck, and Lestat, devout as ever, whimpers something but pulls Louis in closer.
There is nothing quite like the blood of another vampire, and Louis, though initially having bitten Lestat out of anger, feels the sweet sanguine drink coursing through his veins; it nullifies his aches, his annoyance, it sedates his desires to throw anything else at his husband. Their hearts thrum in time, synced perfectly in the same rhythm, Lestat’s vein pumping out blood to the very same tune.
When Louis withdraws, he is panting almost shakily, and Lestat’s eyes are glassy. He pulls Louis in for a kiss, the blood from his own body and the blood of the drunken boy mixing on their lips.
They lick into each other’s mouths, slow and heavy, Louis’ tongue lolling around Lestat’s. Lestat’s tongue drags from his lover’s lips to his chin, lapping up the blood from his radiant, dewy skin. He licks up Louis’ cheek, and Louis sighs, cradling that pretty blond head there.
“Saint Louis,” Lestat murmurs, his voice a pleasant rumble between them. “I owe you everything.”
Yeah, no shit, Louis thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it. For now.
It actually makes him feel quite soft and well pet, Lestat talking like that. He feels much better now that he’s fed, even if his husband is the village idiot and his nice rug will need to be replaced.
Louis’ eyes drag over the floor to where the body of the boy lays, and he feels annoyance starting to nip at his heels. Obviously Lestat is going to clean up this mess. The same Lestat that is licking his face clean and now kissing his neck. The same Lestat that begat the infant growing to fruition inside his womb.
He sighs again.
“You drinkin’ from ‘em to suck the wine outta their blood? You doin’ it to deal with me?” Louis asks softly.
Well yes, I am doing that Louis, but actually, no. I would take you as you are, in any iteration of yourself, even if you sought to curse me, flay me, condemn me for the remainder of my time in the Savage Garden. I owe you everything, Saint Louis.
Just enough to speak, Lestat pulls away. He’s still close enough that he mouths gently at Louis’ lips.
“It is a privilege to love you,” He whispers.
Louis rolls his eyes, and Lestat smirks some.
“Your unpredictable histrionics and feeble threats to kill me tempt the boundaries of my mortality, and you pissed yourself on the stairs, yes,” He continues, grinning, and Louis looks like he can’t decide if he’s going to bite again or find another heavy object to throw.
“I would have it no other way,” Lestat hums.
“You ain’t even answer the question,” Louis huffs, but his hands have found their way to Lestat’s chest.
“Oh dear, there isn’t enough wine in New Orleans for that,” Lestat says with a little scoff, as if Louis is very silly for even asking.
He leans in close and drags his tongue flat up the side of Louis’ cheek, huffing at the taste of the blood there. He’s done a pretty good job cleaning Louis up, licking it from him. The collar of the shirt is soaked a deep red, but he leaves it be.
“I’m goin’ upstairs, clean up your mess, Les,” Louis grumbles.
Oh and Lestat could cry watching him walk away. The waddling, it is so terribly endearing, it really is a strained toddle more than a walk. The swell of his belly. The pouty look on his face as he ascends the stairs. The blood staining the shirt.
Try not to pee on the stairs again, Louis.
Soon, they’re going to have a baby. The thought, when Lestat considers it in its entirety, makes him feel breathless. Louis is growing his baby for him, for them, what declaration of love could possibly be louder than that? Louis swears that they’re going to have a little girl, and Lestat likes to daydream about her. He tells Louis he can’t wait to meet her. He wants to see Louis’ beautiful features on her little face. He looks for Louis everywhere, in everything, and to be part of the creation of what is a new piece of Louis is a privilege he could never fully deserve.
Louis was made in love, their baby was made in love; love swallows everything they touch. Lestat has never known love as he knows it now, it has never avowed to him with such conviction; he has never cradled it so closely and known it so intimately. Love, Lestat thinks, loves him back.
He thinks of these things fondly as he cleans up their floor, meticulously rolling the body up in the carpet to take out to the incinerator.
He thinks fondly as he scrubs the mud and scuff marks up from the wood.
A labor of love.
The floor is clean. He could never, would never burden Louis, his beautiful and very pregnant Louis, with mess on his floor. His floor. Louis’ house.
Lestat has some blood on his sleeve. He climbs the stairs, and he can smell the lotion before he’s even halfway up. It’s expensive, luxurious, Louis doesn’t need it, but he likes the feel and Lestat loves the smell. He bought it as a gift, another one of his many pregnancy gifts, an import from Paris. Orange blossoms, it smells like.
“Louis?” Lestat calls down the corridor.
There is no answer, but he hears a soft hiss from the boudoir.
“I see you’ve managed to avoid another accident,” He teases, approaching the bedroom.
The stairs are dry. That’s good. Perhaps he should have let that sleeping dog lie, or at least made sure there was nothing on hand for Louis to throw.
Another hiss, and then a little whine.
Lestat steps into the boudoir. There is Louis, sitting on the bed, kicked back in a pile of pillows all arranged behind him. The bloody shirt is now unbuttoned, leaving his entire torso exposed, those heavy, swollen tits on display. Lestat’s eyes widen.
He watches Louis, a pretty hand massaging at one of the sore breasts. The nipples are so puffy, so supple. His throat feels dry. He notices small, damp circles on the fabric of the open nightshirt.
Louis looks over at him.
“You made me a cow,” He hisses.
Lestat gulps.
“Are they hurting?”
Louis grumbles something and massages at the tender breast in his cupped hand. He’s shaking his head and muttering, but Lestat has stopped listening. His eyes fixate on the gentle way Louis handles himself, trying to ease the ache. The intentional yet delicate squeezes are not lost on Lestat, his observations tell him that Louis is leaking again.
The milk, or rather the colostrum, had first started to come on early in Louis’ pregnancy. It’s only been in the last couple of weeks that the leaking has increased, the milk production has started to increase.
Louis has let Lestat relieve him a couple of times. They speak softly when they do it. It’s raw, it’s intimate, Lestat cradles those moments carefully and Louis revels in the connection between them it fosters. It doesn’t feel like a dirty taboo when they share each other’s bodies in unconventionally eroticized methods. It feels safe. It feels like love.
As Louis massages the tender tissue, milk starts to leak. His nipples are so sensitive, sore to the touch. He shoots Lestat a surprisingly soft look of pleading.
“Yeah, yeah, hurting,” He sighs, the milk dribbling out over his fingers.
Lestat starts to salivate. He crawls into bed and looks at Louis with such adoration it’s palpable in the air between them.
“My Louis,” Lestat says softly. “I love you. Tu es si beau, je suis reconnaissante.”
Slowly, Louis turns his head and reaches a hand to stroke Lestat’s hair. He watches his husband sigh softly and lean into the touch.
“Merci, mon Louis. You are giving me the greatest of gifts. I love you.”
Louis hums thoughtfully. Perhaps he won’t yet kill his husband. Lestat, while occasionally useless and infuriating, would move Heaven and Earth for him. He knows it.
“Sufferin’ through this just for you,” Louis grumbles, but he cracks a little smile, stroking Lestat’s soft, pretty hair. He twists a curl around one of his fingers.
They sit like that for a moment, Lestat sponging up the affection, Louis silently appraising his lover with a gentle hand. He strokes gently across Lestat’s cheek, and watches as his husband’s face twists into an expression that indicates he very well may weep. Louis smiles fondly. He finds Lestat’s bleeding heart very precious when they are like this.
“You hungry, baby?” Louis asks, sliding a hand underneath Lestat’s chin, prompting him to look. He thumbs gently over his bottom lip.
A shuddering shiver sprawls down Lestat’s spine, and he nods.
“Louis, Louis, let me take care of you,” He begs. “Let me take that pain away. I will do anything for you.”
Louis bites his lip.
“I know you will.”
He reclines some against his mountain of pillows and opens his arms, inviting Lestat into them. Lestat crawls over and lies across Louis’ lap, his head in Louis’ arms. Louis cradles him there, and with one hand, gently nudges a nipple into Lestat’s lips. It makes him hiss slightly, the skin so sensitive.
A little whine comes from Lestat’s lips. Louis is so generous, allowing him to be the one to take his misery away. His lotion smells divine. His skin is so soft. He suckles softly on the nipple in his mouth, and shudders once more feeling the sweet milk coat his tongue.
Louis sighs, feeling relief already starting to wash over him as the pressure is lessened, Lestat’s soft mouth relieving the ache and the maddening swelling. He feels how gently Lestat nurses from him, he watches his lover’s eyes flutter closed. He strokes Lestat’s cheek and cradles his head closer, holding that pretty head like a baby. Lestat is held tenderly between the pregnant bump of Louis’ stomach and his milk-filled tits.
“That’s it,” He says softly, and Lestat whines softly, suckling away, delighted. The milk is so sweet, the texture is silky, and he quivers trying to continue drinking delicately and avoid gulping it down.
The intimacy, it makes Louis feel hot. The blood rushes between his legs and he feels a throb there, feeling his boxers begin to grow wet. He groans softly feeling Lestat’s restraint begin to wane, feeling him feed with more insistence and hunger.
Milk dribbles from the corner of Lestat’s mouth, and Louis smacks his lips in a chiding tsk.
He watches Lestat’s eyes flutter.
“How it taste, baby?”
Lestat moans and paws softly at Louis’ chest.
“C’mere,” Louis pants softly. He leans down and kisses Lestat’s cheek. He can feel the hollow of the flesh as he sucks.
“Switch sides,” He says, trying to nudge Lestat’s head up.
Lestat whines pitifully as if Louis has just cast him away and not simply told him to switch to the other tit. He gulps eagerly and Louis hisses. He grips his husband tightly, nails digging into him.
“You’re so greedy, you love being my little milk-drinker, don’t you?” He groans.
Lestat nods, and with a little wet pop he draws his lips from Louis’ nipple, lapping softly at the milk dribbles and puffy areola in gentle kitten licks.
Eagerly, he adjusts his own positioning, squirming to turn and situate himself in Louis’ arms facing the other breast. He barely waits to be cradled before he latches his mouth onto the other nipple, moaning again as fresh milk again fills his mouth.
The throb in Louis’ boxers grows. He feels wetness begin to drool into the fabric and clutches Lestat’s head closer. He feels hot, he feels like Lestat’s tone deaf gift is now entirely irrelevant and need swells in his body.
“Baby,” Louis huffs.
Lestat nuzzles against Louis’ soft, warm tit, suckling with more desire. His drinking has become gulps. His hand paws at Louis’ chest again, squeezing gently and moaning as he milks his husband. His eyes are glassy when he opens them. He looks up at Louis with pupils blown, lashes weighing down his eyelids. His head feels like it’s swimming.
“You’re so good to me, drinkin’ like a good boy, what a good baby you are, Les,” He praises.
Lestat whines. Milk again drips down over his cheek and chin.
Louis reaches to pull his nipple free, and smirks at his husband’s desperation to have it back in his mouth, watching Lestat stick his tongue out, whining and rooting his face forward.
“So hungry,” He muses, and Lestat groans, a hand gripping at Louis’ thigh.
“Chéri, chéri, s’il te plaît,” Lestat begs.
Louis hums like he’s considering the plea. His wet cunt throbs.
“I’m gonna feed you alright,” He groans, pushing Lestat’s head back so he can sit up straighter in his pillow pile. He can’t even see his boxers underneath his stomach. He spreads his legs, and Lestat’s eyes turn to saucers.
“Louis,” He says, breathless. He gets down on his stomach and crawls up between those soft thighs, pushing his face up against the damp fabric. The smell of Louis’ pussy, all wet for him, makes him moan and shiver in the sheets.
Oh Lestat is eager. One little nudge, one little whiff, and he’s like a desperate, loyal dog, wanting nothing more than he wants his husband’s pussy in his mouth.
The sight makes Louis sweat.
“Eat up,” Louis huffs.
Lestat sobs dryly as he rubs his face into the fabric, licking at it like he can’t stand to waste a single drop, the boxers stealing what should be his to drink.
Saint Louis is the most generous of Gods, offering himself up with no hesitation, demanding his needs be met. What is Lestat if not his humble servant? What is his purpose if not to bend to Louis’ will and indulge every desire, every need, every demand?
Lestat groans, hands becoming a frantic clamor to pull the underwear away, and he actually rips the fabric in his impatience. He throws them aside and gratuitously rubs his face into Louis; that sweet, soaking pussy wetting his cheeks, his chin, his nose.
Unfortunately, Louis can’t see much over his stomach, but he reaches down and shoves that blond head down, hard, momentarily suffocating Lestat against his cunt. His breath hitches, and when Lestat begins to lick, tongue following the length of his pussy, Louis sighs.
The taste is divine. His tongue dips inside to eat up the delicious wet drink spilled for him, slick and warm and sweet. The tip dances and trails to lavish over the lips before it flattens, licking in eager little laps. Lestat’s hands grip Louis’ plush thighs, pushing them apart and again slipping his tongue inside the warm, pink treat.
Louis moans softly.
“Good boy,” He groans, hissing softly through his teeth. He knows Lestat likes that. He knows Lestat loves eating him out perhaps more than fucking him, and definitely more than having his cock sucked.
His hips jerk. Lestat huffs and circles his tongue around Louis’ clit. He loves the way he feels the nerves throb under his tongue, feels Louis’ pussy clench and more wetness drip down. Again, he can’t help but rub his face in it before kissing Louis’ clit softly.
Louis whimpers.
“Lestat,” He manages, sounding both impatient and almost surprisingly soft.
In response, Lestat hums and kisses at his clit again. His lips lavish love over the sensitive nerves. His kisses are warm and soft. He tongues gently there before he’s back to kissing.
Those soft thighs begin to quiver underneath Lestat’s big paws. Louis whimpers out again, trying to nudge his hips closer.
“C’mon,” He pleads quietly.
“Mm. Désolée, mon cher. I like to savor my food.”
Louis throws his head back and groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. His clit throbs, and when he feels Lestat’s tongue encircle it once more, he moans.
My husband wants to live after all.
Who is Lestat to deny Louis a single whim? Louis wants a baby, Lestat has to give him one. Louis’ swollen tits need milked, Lestat must drink. Louis’ pussy needs licked, well, Lestat must eat. It’s quite simple.
That warm mouth is working towards finding Louis’ favor. Lestat laps at Louis’ cute pink clit before he closes his eyes and wraps his lips there, giving a gentle suckle.
Louis moans and jerks, hips lurching forward.
“Th-That!” He exclaims, breathy.
Lestat can’t help but moan in response. The tip of his tongue flicks against Louis’ clit, his fingers dig tighter into his thighs, he laps at Louis’ pussy before he is back to indulging precisely what his husband needs, sucking tightly at his clit.
Louis squeals. It feels so good. Lestat’s mouth knows just what to do with him, all the right places to kiss and lick. He grabs at Lestat’s hair, tugging tightly. Lestat’s cock is twitchy in his pants.
Lestat’s face rocks side to side, his nose buried in the hair spread on Louis’ pubic bone. He flattens his tongue, collecting the delicious slick from Louis’ dripping cunt, and he moans pitifully at the taste. Louis tastes so good. His pussy clenches and twitches and Lestat is right there to soothe him with his tongue.
“Ah fuck, Lestat,” Louis whines. He’s soaked. The juice drips down to his ass, coating his asshole and the crack between his perfect cheeks.
The sound is pornographic, Lestat’s licking and slurping, the suckling, the lapping. His lips purse to suck up the sweet pussy juices before he latches onto Louis’ clit, sucking tightly and rocking his head with the way Louis’ hips are trying to grind against his face.
He’s rock hard in his pants now. Louis sounds so good, moaning for him.
The sounds fly freely from Louis’ lips, moaning and whimpering at the ceiling. His hand in Lestat’s hair jerks, and he yanks his husband’s head hard, pressing his face right into his pussy as he eats.
“I’m-,” Louis whimpers. “Don’t stop, don’t stop-,” His voice is tight, strained, high pitched.
Lestat would never dream of stopping.
That sweet little clit is now the focus of all of Lestat’s attention. He alternates between pressing his tongue against it, licking hard with the flattest point, and flicking it gently with the tip. He sucks in between his licking, wanting Louis to be thrown helplessly into a crashing orgasm.
Lestat loves this. Lives for this.
Louis chokes and whimpers, moaning pitifully now. His thighs shake. His clit throbs in Lestat’s mouth.
Gently, Lestat allows his teeth to graze the swollen nerves, and Louis mewls, his back arching up. That mouth, it is unholy.
“So close,” Louis chants helplessly, blubbering out a near incomprehensible string of Lestat, and Don’t stop, and I’m close, I’m close, so close, gonna cum, baby, Les, please, you feel so good.
Lestat’s tongue laps at Louis’ clit, feeling a dull ache in his jaw. Good. Proof of a job well done. He’d eat Louis’ pussy even if his jaw was damn near going to fall off. He goes back to sucking.
Louis sobs.
The orgasm hits him, flinging him up onto a wild high. He moans, his body jerking and writhing, his hand clenched so tightly in Lestat’s hair that his husband actually whines in pain. Louis does not hear and does not care.
Lestat works him through it, working his clit over, sucking at exactly the pressure his Saint Louis needs; he only stops when he feels Louis’ hand loosen and his body begin to quiver. He hears Louis gasping raggedly.
He gently releases Louis’ clit, kissing it softly, once, twice, three times.
Louis is whimpering.
Lestat’s tongue gently swirls and drags around the swollen lips, down to Louis’ ass, then works back up, cleaning him up and bringing him down. He wants to keep going, he wants to eat Louis’ pussy until his tongue can’t move. He’s gentle, and licks softly once more at Louis’ swollen clit. Louis blubbers stupidly.
“Mon Dieu, you taste so good, Louis. I love you, I love you,” Lestat pants from between his legs.
He gives the wet, pretty cunt a little kiss.
His cock is throbbing, thick and swollen with blood, precum wetting the pink tip.
“Please, please Louis, I want more,” Lestat whines pathetically. He licks a flat stripe up Louis’ wetness again.
Yeah, I know you do, Louis thinks. So pussy whipped you’d stay there all night if I let you.
His brain is too fuzzy to voice that.
He writhes and shakes his head, hissing through his teeth at Lestat’s tongue lapping at him, sensitive and quickly growing overstimulated.
“I-I know you’re hard,” Louis manages to huff. He knows Lestat doesn’t even need touched, just his face stuffed in his pussy and his cock swells.
Finally, Lestat’s head pops up. He nods, big hands lavishing over Louis’ thighs. He nuzzles his cheek against Louis’ stomach.
“You want fucked?” He asks, kissing on Louis’ belly, kissing up to his chest, then to Louis’ neck. Lestat covers the skin there in his lip prints. He bites gently at the corner of Louis’ jaw.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck me,” Louis begs, gripping Lestat’s face to wrench it from his neck. His cheeks are all wet.
Louis can’t help himself. He licks Lestat’s face, licking up his own mess. Lestat moans and kisses him, and they share the taste. What a good husband he has.
They kiss for a while. Lestat is propped up over his Louis, supported on one arm while he reaches into his pants to stroke his cock, moaning shakily into Louis’ mouth. Louis hums, sucking Lestat’s lips and tongue.
The intimacy.
Louis loves him. Louis loves him so much. Louis feels so close to him.
“Lestat-,” He sighs into their kisses. “I wanna- I wanna choke on it a little,” He admits. He loves that thick cock. He supposes that maybe Lestat deserves a little cock sucking after eating him out like that. Maybe not, though. Eating his pussy is reward enough.
Over Louis, Lestat buckles slightly and pants against his mouth. His eyes are hazy.
“Mon cœur, you don’t have to-,” He breathes. “Louis, Louis, I want to pleasure you.”
Does he want his cock sucked? Yes. Does he want to fuck that tight, soaking heat? Also yes.
Louis nods, cupping Lestat’s cheeks, mouthing at his face. He feels compelled to give Lestat pleasure in return, he wants to love his husband and love him well.
“Please? Just a little, baby.”
His nails scratch gently over Lestat’s scalp and down the back of his neck. Lestat whines.
“Go easy, my love,” Lestat begs, his voice soft.
Louis nods. How cute. His husband wants to put his cum inside him, fill his pussy with it, where it belongs.
They’ve had to get increasingly creative with their sexual positioning as Louis’ belly has grown. Lestat lays next to Louis against the pillow pile. He wriggles out of his pants, cock throbbing and standing, foreskin pulled back in little folds around the head. He casts his shirt aside, and sighs as Louis crawls between his legs, lying on his side and his face hovering over the thick, throbbing cock.
Louis is propped comfortably against one of Lestat’s thighs. He turns his head to kiss it softly, the downy blond hair tickling his lip. He feels the muscle twitch beneath his lips.
“I wanna make you feel good, too,” Louis breathes softly, and Lestat moans pitifully, cock twitching.
“Mon amour, you look at me and I feel good, you smile and the world makes sense, tu es ma vie, mon cœur-,”
Louis smiles at the breathless rambles.
“Thank you,” He murmurs. He blushes and isn’t even sure why. Lestat monologues about his love constantly.
He closes his fingers around the base of the thick shaft, stroking gently upwards and squeezing at the head. Lestat moans softly and casts his head back against the stack of pillows.
“You’re so hard,” Louis muses, barely suppressing a whine in his throat.
“Yes,” Lestat groans.
Cute.
Looking up to his husband’s flushed face, Louis opens his mouth and sucks the head inside. He sighs softly, rubbing it against the inside of his cheek. He strokes the shaft.
Lestat moans and looks down, brows pulled together. Oh Louis. Louis is so beautiful. Louis is so good to him.
He reaches down to thumb at Louis’ cheek, the head of his cock visibly protruding from beneath the skin. He touches the bump and shudders.
“I love you,” Lestat says, strained.
“Mhm,” Louis hums, bobbing lower to take in some more length.
He’s barely gotten started and Lestat’s toes curl, cock drooling precum, balls tightening. He sucks tighter, fisting what’s not in his mouth. He hums around the soft skin, dragging his mouth back up to the head to tongue at the foreskin.
Lestat’s thighs tense and shiver. He watches so closely, eyes wide, hand against Louis’ face, huffing softly. He moans softly when Louis dips down, swallowing his fat, thick length into his throat. The gagging is maddening. The gags squeeze tight around the head, Lestat frantically reaches up to push some hair from his face.
His hips jerk and twitch, he feels Louis gag again, starting to drool.
“Louis,” He tries.
Louis gurgles in response, but keeps Lestat there in his throat, swallowing and gagging around him, working him with his throat.
Oh how he loves when Louis drools.
“Ah!” Lestat gasps, chest heaving. “Vas-y doucement, s’il te plaît, chéri, chéri,” Comes his shaky moans.
Those stunning green eyes flick to meet Lestat’s. Lestat swoons, petting Louis’ hair. That face is heartbreaking, devastating, it renders Lestat helpless. Those eyes, little purple rims, a part of Lestat permanently intertwined with Louis. The drool soaks the shaft and drips lewdly down to Lestat’s balls, slicking the hair around the base.
Any more of this, Lestat knows he’s going to cum. He won’t stand a chance. He desperately pats at Louis’ shoulder, tugs gently at his cheek trying to get his head up.
Lestat’s hips pitch forward and Louis gags again. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Chéri,” He begs again. “I need to fuck you.”
Louis relents and pulls his head up, a wet popping sound lewdly bouncing between them as Lestat’s cock falls from his lips and back against his stomach. He’s got a pretty smirk on his face. He sits up and squirms close, placing a soft hand against Lestat’s chest.
“I like suckin’ that big dick,” He whispers against Lestat’s face. His mouth is wet, it slimes Lestat’s cheek where he speaks.
Just earlier, his Saint Louis was crying, then yelling, then throwing things. Lestat counts himself the luckiest vampire walking the planet that here he has Louis as he has him now. They dole their love onto each other’s bodies, they commune in shared, reciprocated pleasure. This carnal act, it is a declaration of love, of passion, and Louis is withholding none.
One plus one becomes one.
They kiss. Lestat’s hands freely roam where they can reach; Louis’ hair, chest, shoulders, impregnated belly, his hips. The kisses are wet, heavy, the sloppy sound filling the finite space between them.
“C’mon, baby,” Louis says shakily, licking across his husband’s bottom lip. Both of their eyes are hazy, and when they meet, Lestat feels dizzy regardless of the fact he’s lying back.
“I’m so wet,” Louis whispers. He picks up one of Lestat’s hands, those beautiful, massive hands that are so practiced in the ways in which they love him; Louis guides the hand down between his legs and nudges Lestat’s fingers against him. His pussy is soaked. Louis whines as Lestat rubs at him, teasing around his clit.
“For me?” Lestat huffs in his face.
Louis clasps a hand around the back of his neck, nodding. He leans their foreheads together.
“Uh huh,” He pants. “All wet for you.”
Saint Louis, my devotion to you knows no bounds.
They kiss again. Louis grabs at Lestat’s shoulders and neck, and Lestat slips two fingers into that little cunt he so adores, fingers sliding and rolling in fluid come here circular motions. He swallows up Louis’ moans.
When he pulls the long digits free, he stuffs them into his own mouth, sucking up the slick.
Louis smirks. “Pussy makes you stupid.”
Lestat scoffs like that offends him, but he dutifully sucks his own fingers clean. It would be a sin punishable by death should he leave any juice to waste; it would be perfectly within reason for Louis to make good on his pregnant histrionics and kill him for such a thing.
Missionary has gotten considerably more difficult with Louis’ belly between them, at least, it has in the way Lestat likes. It’s much more difficult to lean in over his Louis now. It’s more difficult to have and allow Louis to grab at him, scratch up his back. He’d take Louis on his hands and knees, but he wants his love to be comfortable.
Instead, Lestat helps Louis lie on his side. They do have to pause to adjust the pillows again, Lestat knows it’s more comfortable for Louis to have one propped between his knees nowadays.
Lestat lies behind him, pressing his chest to Louis’ back. He holds him tight, an arm around his torso. He cannot refrain from kissing the back of his neck, his shoulders, and can’t possibly keep his tongue in his mouth, needing to taste the sweat and salt on his skin.
Louis rocks back against his husband, whining softly at the sensation of the hard cock behind him, rubbing up against his ass.
“Fuck me,” He groans.
Lestat groans back, biting softly at the back of Louis’ neck.
How beautiful this is, their marital bed arranged for Louis’ comfort and Lestat there to relieve him, to share in the divinity their love fosters.
“Shh, I will, bien sûr,” Lestat shushes.
With his free hand, he reaches down, pressing the head of his cock against Louis’ pussy. It’s so warm. It’s so wet. He feels bad that he knows he’s going to cum quick.
In a careful but fluid movement, Lestat sinks his cock inside. Both of them gasp, and Louis grabs at Lestat behind him.
The squeeze. It already feels like Louis’ insides are trying to milk his cock dry.
Slowly, Lestat begins to rock his hips. His strokes aren’t very fast, but they’re deep, and he adjusts one of Louis’ legs to get an angle that allows the depth to increase. He’s almost fucking against Louis’ cervix. Louis moans.
“God, Louis,” Lestat pants in his ear, chin tucked on his shoulder.
Louis moans and digs his fingers into Lestat’s flesh. He’s grabbing a thigh, and he crooks an arm behind him, trapping Lestat’s head against him.
“Harder,” He pleads. His mouth hangs open, and he’s staring at the wall, eyes fluttering.
Anything for you, Louis.
Lestat complies. He’s gripping Louis so tight - they’re pressed together so tightly there’s hardly space for him to move his hips. He fucks him harder. Their skin slaps together. Louis rocks against the mattress.
They moan together, and the symphony of sounds is, to Lestat, resplendent. A choir of angels could not sing this song better.
“Louis,” He praises.
Louis’ moans in response make his hips thrust faster, harder. He would put another baby in that womb if he could.
They’re sweaty, they’re sticking together. Lestat tries to kiss at Louis’ neck, his tongue lavishing the skin and over the veins. He feels them thrum under his tongue, he’s acutely aware of their shared heartbeat. Lestat shudders, it makes the sounds from his lips shake and rattle.
Hard. Fast.
The squelch of Louis’ cunt makes him feel feral. He grinds deep into the squeeze, feels Louis’ pussy drool on his balls and thighs.
Lestat shifts the angle just slightly, and he smirks against Louis’ shoulder when his love cries out. Louis’ fingers scrabble desperately, clutching at his flesh, nails scraping the skin and tearing little wounds into one of his thighs.
The thick head of his cock slams into and rubs against Louis’ g-spot, and Louis is quickly resigned to squealing his pretty little head off.
“How’s that feel?” Lestat growls.
Louis sobs, gasping for breath.
That’s the spot.
Lestat’s thrusts are relentless. He feels faint. His brain is foggy. His cock fills Louis with each pass, leaving him empty and stuffed in a maddening rhythm. That fat cock hits all the right spots, it drags along his insides as it impales him, it throbs and slams into his g-spot over, and over.
Louis howls. He tears into Lestat’s thigh and shoulder. He smells the blood.
“Tell me how it feels, Louis,” Lestat huffs. His fangs protrude.
“S-So good,” Louis chokes out, gurgling in his throat.
“My good boy, my pretty boy, so good for me, so pregnant, stuffed and bred full,” Lestat babbles, low and breathy.
Louis nods stupidly. He’s close. He doesn’t even want to rub his clit like this.
There’s something unbearably sexy about fucking Louis so pregnant, about his tits bouncing, about the way his pussy feels now that he’s bred.
Lestat is losing himself, and fast. He latches himself onto Louis’ neck, kissing and sucking the skin. He can’t help sinking his teeth in. The blood spurts into his mouth and his eyes roll back.
Louis’ legs quiver, he chokes on his own moans.
Lestat knows he’s close. He can feel it. Smell it. He wants to feel the orgasm around his cock, savor the taste of climax in Louis’ blood.
Again, he adjusts his thrusts, and they’re more shallow now, they’re fast, they’re sought to fuck against Louis’ g-spot and stimulate that divine little button on his insides.
The intimacy.
It’s difficult not to drain Louis dry. Lestat restrains himself, just barely, wanting to engorge himself like a fat leech. Louis tastes like Heaven; pussy, blood, sweat, spit, it doesn’t matter.
“Lestat! Les- Fuck- I-I’m-,” Louis tries. His words are hardly intelligible.
Lestat knows all the tells of Louis’ orgasms, but he first tastes it in the blood. That alone sends him, flings him into the throes of his own climax. They’re coming together. He chews at Louis’ neck, moaning helplessly.
The g-spot stimulation makes Louis gush. He’s trembling, liquid soaks both of them, it squirts gratuitously, it wets the sheets and makes a puddle beneath them; their skin drips with it.
Cum fills Louis’ pussy in thick, hot spurts. It paints his insides, it coats Lestat’s cock as he fucks that little hole through their coming in tandem.
Maybe, Lestat thinks, Maybe I can add a twin in there.
The wet spot spreads out around them on the mattress, and Louis is trembling. These orgasms are intense. Lestat sinks inside as deep as his length will allow, and releases his jaws from Louis’ neck. He gurgles the blood in his mouth before swallowing, panting and licking his lips.
They don’t speak. They tremble against each other, wet with sweat, wet with Louis’ impressive amount of fluid. Lestat laps at the puncture wounds on his husband’s neck, and even just the remnant taste of blood from the inflicted bite makes him feel woozy.
The chemicals, no, the drugs swirling in Louis’ brain make his tongue loll about in his mouth, make his eyes twitch and flutter, make his vision struggle to pull back into singular focus. He feels so impossibly close to Lestat here, like this. It fills him with emotion, and he wants to beg to keep that cock inside him so they meld as close as they can. Permanently. He almost whimpers to be bitten again.
“Louis,” Lestat’s voice finally says. It’s hushed. Louis can tell he too is trying to catch his breath.
“I-,” Louis tries.
Patiently, Lestat is quiet and nuzzles against his neck. He rocks his hips, wanting to stay deeply embedded even if soon his cock will grow soft.
“I needed that,” He finally settles.
Lestat smirks and hums thoughtfully.
“Oui?”
Louis nods. He grabs at the arm that Lestat still has clutching around him.
“Thank you,” He murmurs, and his voice sounds oddly shy.
Lestat doesn’t need Louis to elaborate or spell that out for him. Thank you doesn’t mean thank you for fucking me. This little expression of thanks is a delightfully wrapped package deal of Thank you for taking care of me, thank you for doing this with me, not just the sex, but this life; this eternity. Thank you for cleaning up the mess downstairs. Your gift was stupid. I hated it. But I love you.
If he were to press this Thank you for a dissection, Lestat knows that Louis would likely clam up, close in on himself, maybe cry. Louis isn’t usually one to cry, but nowadays, the tears erupt at seemingly any opportunity. Lestat understands. He often has to fight his own desire to cry. Louis smiles? He wants to cry. Louis kisses him? He has to swallow his weeping. His heart is stitched to his sleeve; it lives between threads and in Louis’ hands.
“I love you,” Lestat whispers. He swallows thickly.
Louis nods.
There’s another beat of quiet between them, and Lestat can’t hold the erection anymore. He slowly pulls out, holding Louis close as he does so. He, without being asked, adjusts the pillows around them so that Louis has his head resting and cradled against one, so the one between his knees is stuffed there at the right angle.
Lestat sits up. He observes the damage on his thigh, and smiles at the claw marks. Tangible reminders of their love shared.
He reaches for Louis, stroking down his back.
“What do you need, chéri?”
Louis grunts.
“Clean sheets.”
That makes Lestat snicker.
“Hurry up. I’m layin’ in the puddle,” Louis laments.
“Well it is your puddle.”
“Lestat!”
Lestat sneers, chewing his bottom lip pulled to smirk.
“You did all this to me,” Louis mumbles. “S’all your fault.”
Oh Louis, I would feel bad, maybe, if you didn’t look so good like that.
They haven’t even had their first baby and Lestat thinks that he needs Louis pregnant again, ideally as soon as possible. Maybe the third or fourth time around, he’ll be used to the moody phases and wild swings of emotion. Part of him actually enjoys it, even if it drives him up the wall and drives him to suck the wine from the mortal blood pool of New Orleans.
“My poor tortured Louis,” Lestat says. His voice is low and gentle, as if he needs to speak softly to avoid anyone else hearing them. Even with the softness, sarcasm clings to and drips from his words.
Louis grabs a pillow and weakly throws it. It hits Lestat in the chest. He rolls his eyes and climbs back in over Louis, assaulting his face with little kisses. Louis groans and thrashes his head.
“I’m wet!” He protests.
“Oh?” Lestat giggles.
Careful Louis, I might be hungry again.
He smothers his Saint Louis in kisses, and only stops when Louis shoves his shoulders hard enough to knock him back.
Lestat pouts, bottom lip sticking out pitifully.
“C’mere,” Louis says suddenly.
He wriggles away from the wet spot on the mattress. Louis takes no small amount of joy in the fact that it’s Lestat’ side of the bed that he soaked. It doesn’t matter if they don’t sleep there. Part of him wants to insist upon it just for the night and protest clean sheets simply to relegate Lestat to the wet spot.
Louis puts his palms over his stomach and grins.
Little thumps from the inside kick at his hands.
Lestat’s eyes grow wide and curious. He shuffles over on his knees, and places a hand against Louis’ belly. Louis patiently adjusts Lestat’s palm to the kicks. He smiles so big that his cheeks hurt when he feels the next round of kicking and watches Lestat gasp in wonder.
“You feel her?” Louis asks.
Lestat doesn’t ask again how he knows they’re having a girl. He’s pressed that many times, and Louis is insistent. Who is he to tell Louis no?
“We made her…,” Lestat whispers. His expression is awestruck. The idea that they, in love, created a living being made wholly out of love herself, it knocks the wind out of him.
Louis nods. “Mhm,” He hums fondly. He’s looking at Lestat more than his stomach now.
They’ve made a lot of things together. They’ve made the house a home. They’ve made the choice to love each other, even when it’s hard. They’ve made a life together. They’ve made love.
Louis thinks about that. He falls headfirst into those thoughts. Everyday (night) together is a collaborative effort of making. Making each other happy. Making the decision to bow out and concede in an argument. Making the choice to choose love and choose that love again, and again.
“Louis?”
Louis’ head turns.
“I said, do you want the sheets changed?”
Louis scoffs.
“You takin’ up a tone with me now?” He’s smirking, but has a brow raised. He feels the baby flutter about in his womb, and loves that when Lestat feels new movement, he gasps.
“Mm. Peut être.”
“ Maybe?” Louis huffs.
“She’s swimming, Louis,” Lestat tells him, his eyes soft, focused on the belly in front of him. Louis half expects hearts to start popping up around him.
“She ain’t swimmin’.”
It’s precious to watch Lestat like this. It’s precious to have him so domesticated and enamored for only his eyes. Louis can’t wait to watch him be a dad.
“Whose eyes you think she gon’ have?” Louis asks.
He watches Lestat’s lips quiver. Oh, what a big sweet baby.
Lestat’s head lifts, and they make eye contact. He smirks.
“Well mine, obviously.”
Louis rolls his eyes. He kicks at Lestat’s hip. Secretly though, he does hope their baby will have his husband’s eyes. He would love to look at her and see all the reminders of Lestat permanently affixed in her features.
He does not say so.
Lestat gets up off the bed, and pulls on some underwear and a robe. Given the fact he’ll need to strip the bed anyways, he throws a sheet over Louis. He can’t have his love getting cold now, can he? How fiendish and cruel that would be. Louis needs appraised to the farthest extent of Lestat’s capacities.
Without any other words or fanfare, he goes down the stairs to fetch clean sheets. There’s some hanging out on the clothesline in the backyard. Louis has decided recently that he very much likes crisp sheets, dried by the sun, and Lestat has been doing the laundry (When did I become the housewife?) and hanging the articles up to cook through the daytime in the sun.
Once he’s back upstairs, he’s actually somewhat pained to see Louis has cleaned himself up. He would’ve done that for him.
Lestat watches Louis sit on the chair adjacent to the bed. He’s wearing another one of his nightshirts. The buttons to cover his abdomen are all left open.
“I think,” He starts to say, pulling up a corner of the sheets. He’s stacked the pillows in a pile next to the bed.
“Oh no, you? Thinkin’?” Louis scoffs.
Lestat hums. He removes the soiled sheets.
“I think,” He continues, “Vivienne is a lovely name. The vampiress Vivienne de Lioncourt.”
It is a pretty name, but Louis snorts.
“Who you know named Vivienne?”
Lestat shrugs. He throws the clean fitted sheet over the mattress, letting the air help to spread it open.
“I think Claudia is a pretty name, too. Do you like it, Louis? Claudia?”
For a moment, Louis thinks, and then scrubs a hand over his eyes.
“Lestat. You fucked all the thinkin’ outta me,” He grumbles.
The swell of Lestat’s ego is tremendous. He smirks.
“Well, I had thought this was a perfect time to discuss this,” Lestat tells him. He tucks the sheet under the corners of the mattress and smoothes his hand over the taut fabric.
“Why?” Louis asks, raising a brow.
“Mm,” Lestat hums thoughtfully. He turns to look at Louis’ face. He’s so pretty when he looks pouty like that. “We need practice in finding the perfect baby name.”
What the hell he tryna say? Doesn’t like the ones I been comin’ up with?
“Wh-,”
Lestat cuts Louis off. “Because next time I knock you up, I want to put a son in you.”
The throw pillow propped behind Louis on the chair suddenly goes flying at Lestat. He ducks and gasps, clutching a hand to his chest as if terribly slighted by that.
“What a romantic you are,” Louis hisses, but his face is red.
There isn’t another pillow to throw, but that doesn’t mean much. This new proclivity of Louis’ for throwing things makes Lestat wonder where he’ll draw the line. Instead of wondering, he should be focused on how to keep his Louis from feeling the need to throw things in the first place.
Lestat steps from the bed over to the chair. He leans in and kisses his husband on the lips.
“You’re welcome, by the way, mon cher,” He hums, grinning. He’s so handsome. Louis turns redder, and reaches up to pull Lestat in for another kiss.
She starts to kick again. Lestat feels lovingly over Louis’ belly, and for some time, they stay like that. They kiss. They giggle. Louis adjusts Lestat’s hands to chase the fluttering, the kicking, the little fists hitting the insides of his womb to feel on the exterior.
Eventually, they make their way to coffin. Lestat has grown accustomed to having hardly the room to breathe; Louis takes up the majority of the space. He’d have it no other way.
Claudia de Lioncourt has a rather nice ring to it. He thinks of this fondly. Lestat doesn't know this, but Louis is pondering the same.
Claudia. Maybe Claudia Grace.
Lestat pets Louis’ hair, and watches as Louis fall asleep first.
Hopefully he’s cleaned up the mess downstairs to Louis’ satisfaction. Hopefully, next time, he’ll be a better gift giver. Perhaps stick to books. Or, perhaps, everyday, continue to make. Together. Whatever that looks like, day to day. Louis should like to have another meltdown? It is not his fault, he is, after all, doing his part, a massive part in the making. Whatever Louis feels, whatever ails him, whatever Louis needs, Lestat will make it right.