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Lestat came home by the time that Louis finished in the bath, the water draining when he heard the front door open and then close. Lestat had gone out to hunt for two tonight, because Louis had proclaimed his interest in sleeping in and staying home last night, recently unusually attached to the idea of sending his man to get food for the both of them.
Louis wrapped himself in a bathrobe when he heard the stairs creak softly with Lestat’s footfalls, and then the knock on the door, Lestat’s "chéri, I’m home" and the flutter in Louis’ tummy at the sound of his voice.
"Come in," he called, rubbing lotion on his face as Lestat opened the door, leaning in the frame — Louis hadn’t seen him tonight yet, because earlier he’d only barely registered that Lestat had left their coffin to get up, earlier than Louis like every night.
"Hi, baby," he said, turned from the door to look at his husband, who was watching him with all of a hawk’s intensity. It always sizzled on his skin, when Lestat looked at him like that.
"Bonsoir, mon cher," he murmured, reached for Louis to draw him into a kiss, "Did you have a good evening?"
Louis kissed him, first the tip of his nose, then the corner of his mouth and finally his lips, and it made Lestat hum contently when he was allowed to pull Louis closer and kiss him properly and indulgently. "Yeah," Louis said when they parted, "I had a nice bath, I tried that oil you gave me, baby. Also, this new robe, it’s so soft."
Lestat smiled as if it pleased him greatly, and ran a hand down Louis’ side, ostensibly to feel the robe fabric’s softness, actually to paw at Louis’ waist. "Are you hungry already?" he asked, studying Louis’ face.
"Mh," Louis said, "I could have a bite, I think."
"I hunted down two murderers tonight, selon la demande de mon chéri," Lestat told him once they’d gone downstairs to the salon, and once Louis was comfortably settled in Lestat’s lap, fangs already sunk in his husband’s throat.
Louis hummed, squirmed on top of him and suckled a bit harder, could see that Lestat had really made an effort to heed his request in the blood, two no-good-doing men down from the docks, one who’d murdered his wife for threatening to leave him, the other a drunk who’d killed another man in a fistfight not too long ago.
Louis pulled away once he’d had his fill, kissed Lestat again, licking at his lips maybe a bit too needily for so early on in the evening. "Thanks, baby," he muttered after, "Was really good."
Lestat was watching him with big eyes, the blue so eclipsed with black it was scarcely visible anymore. It was a bit intoxicating every time, the effect he had on Lestat — Getting his man so hungry.
"Louis," Lestat said softly, "I got something else for you on the way home."
Louis swallowed, wet his lips to stop the leftover blood there from drying. "Baby, you didn’t have to."
Lestat dropped a kiss to his forehead and gently settled him on the sofa, and Louis watched as he disappeared in the hall for a moment to return with a rather big bag stuffed full of thin, frilly paper at the top like they did it in those luxury shops they so often frequented. The logo on the bag was not familiar to Louis, though — That was, until Lestat came a bit closer, when—
Louis laughed, self-conscious to a point, drew his legs to his chest and shook his head. "What did you do?"
Lestat sat back down next to Louis, offered him the bag. "Open it."
Louis’ belly felt a bit funny when he took it from him, because deep down he knew exactly what Lestat had bought and a big part of him knew that he ought to be enraged at the— the suggestion alone, the logo on the bag alone, that heinously fine lingerie shop two stores down from their favourite tailor. He pulled the frilly paper away with a slight tremor to his hands, which he hoped Lestat didn’t pick up on. Inside were four little packages, soft pink boxes, with that logo embossed onto in golden font. And Louis felt hot at the simple thought what could be inside them.
"Lestat, what is all this," he said, put on the most harsh voice he could muster.
Lestat didn’t seem fazed by his anger. "Well, it’s lingerie, mon cher."
"I can see that," Louis snapped, "Why’d you get me this?"
Lestat tilted his head. "I’ve seen you look at this shop ever so often when you thought I wouldn’t notice. So…"
Louis felt even hotter — Humiliation, this time, because Lestat wasn’t wrong, he had really been staring at that shop when they’d walked by it, and the nice things on display in the storefront. Soft silk and sheer lace. "Who do you think I am," he grit out, pushing past the urge to toss the bag away from him and instead set it on the floor, "I’m not gonna— This is for women. I’m not a woman, Lestat!"
Lestat placed a hand on Louis’ thigh, which Louis slapped away. All that nice atmosphere, such a nice evening ruined because Lestat had decided to— make a fool of him, to assume that he ever would— would allow himself to indulge in such things. Because Lestat had figured him out so thoroughly it hurt, as if he’d known how he’d been so fascinated with women’s things as a child that he’d rubbed the same red colour on his lips like his sister had, until his mother had found out. That he’d never figured out how to look at women and find himself attracted to them like his peers could — That he’d only ever been intrigued by the delicate draping of the fabric of their clothes, and the palette of colours they wore and all the frilly bows.
"I know you’re not a woman, Louis," Lestat said quietly, watched him calmly as though appeasing a skittish fawn, "Mais tu es ma femme, n’est-ce pas?"
Louis was off the sofa and out of the room before Lestat had even finished speaking, embarrassed tears in his eyes and the humiliation stung, and he slammed the door of their bedroom shut behind himself with force. He hated how childishly he’d reacted, running away crying — How telling it was, how he’d showed Lestat just how thoroughly he’d hit home with this, and for what? To show Louis how well he knew him, to see how to hurt him most painfully, to display his power and Louis’ weakness, because Louis was sure if their roles had been reversed all Lestat would’ve done was laugh.
"Go away," he snapped, hopefully kept the tears out of his voice, when Lestat knocked on the door, "I don’t wanna see you right now."
"Louis," Lestat implored, "Let me explain?"
Louis balled his hands into fists. "You’re finding this funny, huh?" he called, "You getting some thrill out of this? Mocking me?"
He could hear the creak of Lestat leaning against the doorframe. "Louis," he repeated, "I have never had the intention of mocking you."
"Sure you didn’t," Louis said, "‘s why you got me women’s clothes. You—"
"You say the word and I’ll return it. I won’t ever bring it up again," Lestat said, "But I bought it not with the intention to make you feel humiliated, chéri. I thought you would like it."
Louis breathed in, and breathed out, desperate for air even if he didn’t need it. "Why’d I like it?" he said, voice dropped to a whisper. His eyes still stung with tears. He’d not realised that he’d approached the door in his pacing, that he was leaning against the frame much like Lestat was.
"I’ve seen how you’ve looked at the things on display at this shop," Lestat said quietly, "I know— I’ve seen your thoughts on occasion when we were only friends, chéri. When you saw a beautiful woman, your head would turn and you would feel nothing, except an admiration for her beauty and how she dressed. And some sense of longing that I couldn’t really place, back then."
"That—" Louis swallowed, hated how his voice seemed to break on whatever he was going to say. "You think I’m— You think I wanna be—" He couldn’t say it.
"Louis," Lestat muttered, "Didn’t I promise you that you could be all the beautiful things that you are?"
Louis opened the door, and realised only then that he’d not wiped his tears off his face. Lestat’s lips thinned. "I made you cry. Louis…"
"You’re not gonna tell anyone if I—" Louis wrung his hands. "It’s for your eyes only, yeah?"
Lestat nodded. "Of course. I’d kill anyone who’d see you in this way, chéri, the thought alone of anyone else having you is unacceptable."
"You’re not gonna make fun of me if I— if it’s not gonna look good," Louis whispered, looked down at the floor because he couldn’t bear Lestat’s gaze anymore.
"Louis," he said, "I would never make fun of you, and you will look good, you could never not. I would never judge you for what you need."
Louis inhaled, exhaled, and did it again. What you need. Sometimes he really detested Lestat’s ability to somehow know exactly what he needed. "I think I wanna try them on."
Lestat smiled, disappeared for a second to fetch the bag, and reappeared a moment later with it in hand.
Louis took it, still felt so, so warm, and gestured behind himself to the bedroom. He rarely felt so shy around Lestat, or anyone. "I’m gonna put them on and you can, uh. Wait here?"
Lestat nodded. "Try them on, see how you feel," he said, reached to touch Louis’ face, to brush a thumb over his bottom lip.
Louis kissed him, just chastely on his left cheek, below his eye, and then ducked into the adjacent coffin room, tried to gather his bearings for a second, before he set down the bag and took out all four boxes.
He laid out the contents of each on the sofa, like he would with a selection of suits, to decide which one to wear for the night. There was not a lot that he’d done in his life before that had made his heart beat so hard in his chest, like it was thudding in his throat, so much heat in his face, trembling hands.
All four items were sets. A bralette with matching panties. Exquisite fabrics; One set in pink silk, one in red lace. One almost-sheer, with intricate floral embroidery. And the last — and this one made Louis’ heart seem to drop to his belly — made from some entirely sheer mesh fabric, only some parts covered in a see-through sort of lace.
The thought of wearing any of this— It made Louis’ head spin and his palms sweat, but the heat wasn’t humiliation anymore but some deep, helpless arousal at knowing that he could wear these things without consequence. He’d not allowed himself to think about such a thing in the past, not for a second, and thought, involuntarily, of his mother’s face aghast with rage at the red colour on his lips that Grace had given him.
He was allowed to do even that now, wasn’t he, paint his lips red and make himself look — what did Lestat always call him? — make himself look pretty whenever he wished. He’d protested that notion, too, at first, being called pretty, but Lestat had laughed and asked if lying was not a sin, mon cher, and would I not lie if I did not call you pretty?
Louis’ stomach felt a bit queasy while he undressed, took of his bathrobe and his underwear, put all of it into its proper place, and lingered in front of the sofa, unusually cold in his nakedness, to decide which set to choose. The pink one, silk and non-transparent, seemed the safest one. The most covering, even if the bralette was tiny. But the panties were— modest, compared to the others. The pink was— He’d never worn anything pink before.
He pulled on the panties first, and there was a sense of security to the fact that they covered everything, even if they were cut differently than the underwear he was used to. The silk felt so soft against his skin, a bit cold. He struggled with the bralette for a moment, even if he’d seen Miss Lily put on hers on occasion. When he got it right, it covered most of his chest, but it felt—
He bit his lip at the sight of himself in the mirror by the wardrobe, how he looked. The soft pink against his brown skin, and the way the bralette looked on him, the little bow in the dip right at the middle, where the cut of the fabric created the illusion of his chest swelling where a woman’s breasts would be.
He looked indecent like this, eyes wide in shock and staring at himself. He looked so, so good to his own eyes, like— almost as if he was meant to wear something like this, and he wondered in the back of his mind, if Lestat would ever buy him a dress to wear over this.
He was breathing so harshly, his pulse too fast, and he knew that Lestat could hear it from the other room, how excited Louis was. He’d been right — There was this urgent sense of need in Louis now, to try on the others, to see if any of them looked even better on him, or if any felt even more right, but— He wanted to show Lestat first, for the curiosity for his reaction, and for the— the thrill of someone else seeing him like this.
He made it to the door before his burst of confidence wore off, hand on the handle already. Lestat had seen him naked, had seen him beg to be touched, had seen him cry and squirm from overstimulation, but somehow this was more. More revealing than anything he’d let him see before.
He pressed down the handle before he could change his mind, and felt entirely ridiculous as he stepped into the room, looking down to the floor. Lestat was so quiet that Louis would’ve thought he’d left the room had he not heard his heartbeat so close still.
He stood in the middle of the room for another painful, silent moment before he couldn’t take that terrible feeling in his stomach anymore and looked up at his husband, expecting some sort of shock, maybe, but— Lestat’s mouth was hanging open, and his eyes were wide, the blue completely gone from the irises, the pupils huge and it took Louis a moment to grasp that— that he was looking at him as if he was food to consume. His hands were fisted into the duvet that he was sitting on.
"Louis," he whispered, such awe in it, like he’d never seen something so worthy of his adoration.
"You like it?" Louis asked, "I don’t know, it’s—"
"Louis," Lestat repeated, blinked once and twice, so that hollow hunger left his eyes, left only the adoration. He managed to uncurl his fists from the bedsheets. His voice was less strained now, like he’d recovered from his initial shock. "You look— It fits you so well. Your thighs…"
Louis stole a glance sideways, where another mirror was fixed to the wall. The panties made his thighs look bigger than they were, and his waist smaller.
"You look beautiful," Lestat said, sounded a bit breathless, awed, "Do you like it?"
Louis reached to play with that bow at his chest. "I think so. ‘s very, uh, unfamiliar."
Lestat nodded slowly. "Of course."
"I think I’m gonna try the red one next," Louis whispered, "I— Baby, I really like this one. It’s so pretty."
Lestat’s breathing was picking up a bit. He reached to undo his tie, like he was feeling too hot. He sounded so fond, though, warm with pride, "Des jolies choses pour ma jolie femme."
Louis felt his cock twitch under the silk at ma femme, Lestat’s woman and Lestat’s wife, one and the same, and wasn’t he just that? Lestat said it all the time, even if Louis fussed about it, I’m not a woman, never I’m not your woman.
Back in the coffin room, he first put on the red bra, a different cut than the pink one had been. It had wires at the bottom of the cups that— pushed the bit of fat there up a bit, and it looked even more suggestive than the pink had, the span of delicate lace against his skin. Louis was breathing agitatedly when he stepped out of the pink panties to put on the new ones, which were— small. Tinier than the others. Less covering, made to be more revealing, the back tapering thin, and the front scarcely covering anything. And unlike with the others, his hair spilled out of the sides of this one, lots of small curls at his thighs. It made his cock twitch, the sight of himself, and it was painfully visible in these panties, the shape of it pressing against the fabric.
Lestat’s reaction to this set was, well. Even more telling than the first. When Louis stepped back into the room, Lestat’s breath hitched and Louis’ mouth watered because he pressed his hand to his crotch for a moment, almost absentmindedly, as if the pressure there was too much to take. The shape of his dick was visible through his suit pants.
Louis felt so— so warm. "I don’t— I’m not so sure about this one," he said, and fought the urge to cover himself and the hair spilling out the sides of the panties.
"Why not?" Lestat asked, strained.
"They’re smaller than the other ones," Louis whispered, and he felt Lestat’s gaze, that primal, hungry gaze, glued to where the panties barely managed to cover his cock, the little wet spot on the red fabric, because this was one of the most arousing things Louis had ever lived through and Lestat was seeing it, and the shame he ought to feel was so thoroughly drenched with need that it was nothing in comparison.
"Chéri, turn around for me?" Lestat’s voice was barely a whisper. His gaze was so hungry, like he wanted to devour Louis whole.
Louis turned around for him, slowly, saw his own face in the mirror, the sweat on his skin that made it all dewy, his glassy eyes and his bitten lips, open mouth, and what if Lestat made him wear this red set under his suit tomorrow night, what if Lestat bought him more of this lingerie, what if Lestat figured out how much Louis liked this.
"Ma chère, come here," Lestat said quietly and Louis shivered at the casual way he said ma chère, like it was an accidental thing, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lestat’s touch made him gasp, his big hand on his waist, thumb rubbing over the edge of the panties. His eyes were so black that Louis could see his reflection inside the pupils. "The colour is so beautiful with your skin, chérie," he whispered, "You make me want to fall to my knees, Louis."
The sound that Louis made was embarrassing, because Lestat let his thumb dip lower, under the waistband and directly against his skin and the coarse hair—
"Louis," Lestat said hoarsely, and Louis imagined that he could see his dick twitch under his pants, even if it probably only was a trick of the light.
"I think the flower set next," Louis whispered, "Lestat, I wanna—"
"Merde," Lestat said when Louis squirmed, "Please."
When he closed the door of the coffin room behind himself, Louis took a few long breaths to calm himself, but it was in vain. His cock was so hard it was plumped up all the way, pressed against his pubes and he resisted the urge to touch it, because that was for his husband to do later, wasn’t it?
The almost-sheer flower set was— tighter than the other two. The panties almost didn’t fit over his hips, but when he finally got them on properly, the sight of himself in the mirror made him feel even more dizzy than the other two before. His hair was entirely visible through the fabric, but the floral embroidery and the soft pink stitching of the seams hid his cock a bit. It was revealing still, almost as if he was naked but just a little less, and he could hear Lestat’s heartbeat in the other room, matching his own. He almost pressed a hand to his crotch when he got on the bralette because his nipples were so visibly hard through the fabric and so dark brown against the light violet, and he knew that Lestat was obsessed with his chest, and he— He felt so, so keyed up when he got back into their bedroom.
The wires cupping the underside of his chest were biting into his skin a bit, and the embroidery was just a tad scratchy against his cock, and he felt like he was standing before Lestat naked, hands clutched together before his groin because it was embarrassing how wet the mesh fabric already was, when he’d only put it on just now.
"Louis," Lestat muttered, "Show me."
"Baby," Louis whispered, "‘s very sheer. I—"
"Look at yourself in the mirror," Lestat said, "Louis, look."
Louis turned to it, and could see how Lestat was staring at his ass, staring with his mouth open so unabashedly, and Louis shivered. He looked— "You—" He swallowed, bit back the You chose this one so well, settled on, "The seams are a bit scratchy, baby."
"Oh?" Lestat said, tore his eyes away from Louis’ ass to look at the mirror instead, "Are they?"
"Mh," Louis hummed, breath hitching, saliva gathering on his tongue.
Lestat’s breathing picked up. "Are they uncomfortable against your clit?"
Louis fought down the whimper wanting to force itself out. He’d told Lestat not to say that. Because it was wrong. Because he liked it too much, and Lestat couldn’t know that. But Lestat knew it anyways, didn’t he? Lestat knew everything about his wants and needs. He frowned, but it looked like a pout in the mirror, protested, "Baby, that’s—"
"Touch it," Lestat cut him off, "Rub your clit through those panties and tell me how it feels."
Louis swallowed all that spit in his mouth and— and did as Lestat told him, because Lestat knew what was best for him. "Hurts," he whimpered, because the soft stitching felt like sandpaper to the sensitive tip of his cock when he rubbed his thumb over it, "Baby, I wanna— Can you do it for me?"
"No," Lestat said, strained, "You haven’t tried on the fourth set yet, ma chère."
"But Les, I’m so—" He couldn’t meet Lestat’s eyes in the mirror anymore. "I’m so wet."
He moaned because Lestat was palming his dick through his pants again, his breathing closer to panting by now. Panting for it. Louis was so close to just climbing in his lap and grinding against him, just— "Louis," Lestat said, like he also couldn’t take it anymore, "Put on the fourth set so that we can—"
He didn’t need to finish it. Louis put on the last set in a daze, the world so much more colourful by now than before. Sheer, entirely see-through silk, with that fine appliquéd lace. The colour of it, some soft, off-white crème, set off his skin tone so well, the hue of it such a nice contrast against the brown — And it hid nothing, nothing at all, unlike the flower stitching had had. He felt so giddy when he went back into their bedroom, the silk pressing tight against his ass, cut differently than all the last ones to cover most of it in lace.
Lestat got off the bed when he saw him, growling low in his throat like some beast spotting its kill.
"Baby," Louis got out, "Baby, this one, I like it so much."
"Merde, chérie," Lestat said, touched Louis’ hip, pulled him close, "I’ve married the most beautiful girl in the world."
Louis was whining continuously by the time Lestat had pulled him to the bed, had arranged him in his lap, thick cock pressing against Louis’ ass through his pants, lips on Louis’ throat, mouthing at his pulsepoint.
"This one is my favourite," Lestat growled, slipped his thumb under the front of it, the strip of fabric under the cups, "One day, when the world will have changed, you should wear it under your wedding dress when I take you as my lawful wife."
Louis moaned, shifted against him greedily, tugging on the fabric of his shirt. "You think we— we can be married legally?"
Lestat groaned and shifted them, so Louis was flat on the bed with Lestat hovering over him. The look in his eyes— "Yes," he said, "And I’ll make you mine for the world to see."
"Baby, please," Louis whined, grabbed his hair and tugged him down for a kiss, so needy by now. He cried out when Lestat pinched his nipples through the silk, made the most humiliatingly high sound when he lowered his mouth to them, made the fabric all wet and then— blew on it, and the cold was so startling it made Louis’ hips buck up into Lestat’s.
"Tell me what you need," Lestat said, ripping open his shirt, all the little clicking of his buttons hitting the floor.
Louis reached for him, palmed at his chest. "You know what I need," he whimpered, didn’t add the don’t make me say it.
"I do," Lestat said, kissed him with lots of spit, "But I want to hear my darling’s beautiful voice saying it."
Louis sucked in a bit of air, chest heaving. His nipples stung so much from Lestat’s handling. "Will you check if these— these panties fit me just as well as the other ones at the back, baby, can you look?"
That his husband didn’t bark was all, because the look on his face resembled that of some famished wolf — A moment later, Louis was mewling into the bedspread on his knees because Lestat had flipped him and was pawing at his ass, growling and snarling, pinching at the bit of fat by Louis’ thighs and at the little fold right below where they met his cheeks.
"They fit you even better," he said, voice rough and cracking. He pulled on the waistband, let it snap against Louis’ skin. It stung so exquisitely and maybe Lestat would flick his hole a bit later, if he was feeling particularly mean. His hands cupped Louis’ cheeks, pulled them open under the silk and the noise Lestat made really was animal. "Your pussy looks so good under the lace."
Louis was glad to have his own sounds muffled into the mattress because they were so embarrassing. "Can you— Can you fuck me while I wear them? Jus’ pull them away?"
Lestat cursed and hooked his fingers under the fabric, tugged it to the side. Louis whimpered into the sheets at the barest touch of Lestat’s finger to his hole, rubbing it, dry and a bit uncomfortable but Lestat knew how much he liked that, having it sting some at first, Lestat forcing in a fingertip without any oil until it made Louis mewl so much that he’d either push in a second to make it burn even more or get the oil. And Louis knew how much his man liked to play with his hole and the little fine hairs around it, how obsessed he was with them, how he’d tug on them with his teeth while eating Louis out.
This time around, they were both too impatient for that — Lestat procured a flask of oil from somewhere in less than a second, put in two fingers coated in it without much teasing, let Louis grind against them for a moment before slowly adding a third, and it burned less than it should’ve because they’d fucked last night and Louis’ bath earlier had made his skin so nicely supple.
Louis realised only when Lestat flipped him yet again, on his side this time, facing the mirror, with Lestat slotted against him from behind, that he’d been whining his name over and over the entire time that he’d been fingered. His face was wet with sweat, his mouth open and his eyes wide and Lestat still half-dressed behind him, shirt hanging open and pants still done up all the way. But himself in that lingerie, how wet the front of the panties had got, entirely translucent now, and his nipples perking against the silk — The imbalance of it, his almost nudity against his halfway dressed husband, his own smaller body against his man’s broad shoulders and big hands and the fact that Lestat could flip him around with a single finger; It shouldn’t have felt like such a relief to Louis, but it did. The relinquishing of responsibility, because Lestat would care about anything he needed.
"Look at you," Lestat muttered against his shoulder, hand bumping against Louis’ ass as he fought to open his pants, impatient with it, "You’re so beautiful, chérie. Men would start wars for you. But you’re mine, aren’t you?"
"Yeah, baby, ‘m yours, gonna be yours forever," Louis got out, hiccuped, so overwhelmed and keyed up and staring at himself in disbelief, because that couldn’t be him, could it, cradled against his husband’s chest, his hand on his belly and his lips against his throat, whispering filth while he jerked himself off behind Louis’ back.
"Please, please," he mewled, moving impatiently against Lestat’s hips, "Wanna have it, baby, please, wanna see if—"
"You want to see what?" Lestat asked, rubbing the tip— the tip against Louis’ hole, slick with oil but it was also leaking so much and Louis could feel it, how it dripped against his hole.
Louis scratched at Lestat’s arm to urge him to put the tip in properly. "Wanna see if it’s gonna make my stomach bulge like when you have me on my back."
Lestat put it in halfway in one thrust, already too big to fit comfortably, snarling with need. His hand cupped Louis’ tummy even more obsessively now, pawing at the swell of fat there, making it jiggle obscenely when he pressed in more of his cock rather sharply.
It hurt in the best of ways. Last night Lestat had indulged himself with licking at Louis’ hole for the better part of an hour, had fingered it for even longer, so slowly that Louis had nearly cried, and even then it had hurt because Lestat’s cock was always too big, no matter how much preparation they did.
Louis whimpered at the glassiness in his own eyes and the empty hunger in his husband’s in the mirror, how Lestat seemed torn between staring at his belly or his chest or his face or his cock in those panties, the waistband of it tugged so low it rubbed against the underside of the crown with each thrust that Lestat gave him, painfully scratchy even if the material was so smooth and soft.
"Is it all the way in?" Louis asked, pushing against it, "Baby, feels like you’re— you’re gonna split me in half, ‘s so deep in this position."
Lestat only made some low groan and snapped his hips forward so they were snug against Louis’, another two inches, and he lifted his hand from his tummy so Louis could see that it actually did make it bulge, his man’s dick pressing up against it from the inside.
"Louis," Lestat growled, squeezing at his chest, creasing up all that beautiful lace and silk with how greedy and careless he was being, "These will look even more plump when they’re swollen with milk when you’re nursing our child, tu ne trouves pas?"
Louis almost choked on his own breath because that notion was so— so forbidden that he was supposed to find it disgusting, wasn’t he? Even if Lestat had alluded to it before, the thought of them having a child like married couples do, but never, never the thought of Louis— carrying it, as if— As if the want for it hadn’t been the most painful of his inadequacies in the past, as the man he’d so desperately wanted to be. As if it wasn’t the greatest of his regrets, the inability to actually do so.
"Baby, don’t say that," he got out weakly, staring at Lestat’s hand, back on his belly, how big it looked with that bit of bulging, how—
"Shh," Lestat soothed, "We’ll find a way to get you with child."
Louis moaned helplessly, tilted his head back to Lestat’s shoulder with the sudden urge to be even closer to him than they already were, because Lestat understood him so well, Lestat loved him so good, Lestat knew him. Lestat would give him anything he needed, he’d vowed to do so.
"My darling wife," Lestat whispered against his lips, "Look at you. Mrs. de Lioncourt in all but in name, non?"
Louis couldn’t even get out Lestat’s name because the force of his orgasm took away his breath and his ability to speak or to think or to do anything except to cling to Lestat’s arm, cock spurting come uselessly, sullying his panties and his tummy. Lestat grunted behind him, gripped Louis’ hips to fuck into him even more crudely than before, perfect, harsh thrusts right to Louis’ prostate so accurately that it made him come again, some dry, overstimulated thing, clenching around his man’s cock like a girl, whimpering over and over at the sensation of Lestat filling him up with come.
He didn’t pull out because Louis whined in protest at his attempt to do so, and arranged Louis on top of his chest instead, still nestled as deep inside him as physically possible. Louis blindly sought his lips in a kiss that Lestat gave him eagerly, indulgent and slow.
"I love you," Lestat said quietly, cupped Louis’ cheek. Louis kissed him again, even sweeter this time, because Louis, as ever and always, was unable to put into words how much— how much he loved his husband. It would not be enough to say it, would it?
"Baby," he muttered when they parted, leaned his forehead to Lestat’s, "Was so good tonight, I liked this so much. You made me feel so good." He didn’t mean just the sex, but the relief, too, the freedom to wear the gifts that Lestat had brought him.
Lestat seemed to understand. He smiled, something so proud in it. And wasn’t it a mercy, having someone who takes pride in your happiness? "You were so beautiful. The most beautiful, Louis," Lestat whispered and with something almost bragging to it, "I am a lucky man."
Louis huffed, wiggled a bit in Lestat’s lap. "You so are. My big strong man," he whispered, "You gonna make me do all the work for round two?"
Lestat’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, my wife wants a round two?"
Louis swallowed, got a hand in his hair. And why should he keep his tight grasp on his needs and wants if Lestat knew them anyway? "She does."