Burlesque

by I_M_Purity

Summary:

Louis de Pointe du Lac, highly successful but lonely adult entertainment club owner, needs a new dancer. The blond, unusual Frenchman he auditions has a way of... complicating things.

Notes:

Chapter TW: mentions of a very homophobic family (who will not appear in this story)

Please forgive any inaccuracies in depictions of strip clubs; I am not a professional in this area, nor is this meant to be a faithful real-world description, but a fairly light-hearted fantasy.

Chapter 1: There Is a House in New Orleans...

Tha Azalea is having a banner night.  Wild stage show.  Packed house.  Drinks flowing.  The spirit of a Bacchanal and the party in full swing.  The only one not having any fun whatsoever is Louis de Pointe du Lac.

 

The still-young club owner massages his temples, weariness breaking through his handsome features.  After all, is he expected to be happy about losing his star attraction?  The Azalea’s best, most popular exotic dancer “Armand” - a mesmerizing beauty with a flair for outlandish, BDSM-inspired performances - graces the stage for the last time tonight.  Granted, Arun-about-to-be-Molloy never made any secret of his long-term plans, so, his departure now that he has secured a. His degree, and b. A husband, does not come as a surprise, but still…  The young man’s graduation is, of course, the expected result of his formidable intelligence and drive.  The husband, Daniel - one of The Azalea’s best customers, silver fox and author of a rather popular vampire horror/erotica series - certainly raised some eyebrows: old enough to be Arun’s father; recently and messily divorced after a later-in-life coming out…  Nonetheless, Louis (and anyone with working eyes or brains) can spot how mutually besotted the couple is.  And he wishes them the best, feels thrilled for his employee, but…  He has a business to run!  Which means he’ll need a new headliner, stat.

 

Hoots and cheers erupt from the main stage.  The Azalea’s owner turns his famous green eyes toward it with a sigh equal parts indulgent and exasperated.  On his final night, “Armand” has chosen to perform in bridal attire (by now down to his white veil, blue garter and virginal-lace thong), enticing generous patrons to join him onstage, take a seat in a chair, and receive some up-close-and-personal attention.  His last scene partner, however, is none other than a beaming Daniel, wearing a look both indecently horny and dopily enamoured as the young dancer gyrates over his lap.  Right, Louis tsks - Mr. Molloy never came here for anyone else, so there goes one of his best customers, too.  Even through the exaggeratedly cherubic makeup, he can see the burlesque dancer’s lovely face light up with sheer, unmitigated love… which only makes him madder.

 

He turns on his heel and makes his way to his office, outwardly serene and inwardly doing his best petulant stomp.  Flops down in his ergonomic chair.  The club is Louis’ pride and joy, has been since the moment he’d swooped in and bought it for a song off that bankrupt idiot Tom Anderson.  Before the ink had even dried on the contract, he’d set the wheels in motion: revamping The Azalea into a place as artistic as it is sexy, a true LGBTQ+ safe space as much as a strip club, selecting and nurturing his performers…  including “Armand”, so he can’t help feeling betrayed as he recalls asking the dancer to stay on a little longer.  “I really would, Lou,” Arun’s wild, dark curls shook with genuine regret, “but Danny has his book tour coming up, so, since I can work from home,” whatever Armand is contracted to do on a computer lies, apparently, beyond the understanding of mere mortals, “I need to take over childcare.”  Those trademark amber eyes visibly softened.  “With Katie and Lenore so young, and still shook up from the divorce, they really need one of their parents with them just now.”

 

Worst thing is, Louis understands.  Can’t fault Arun for it, not after having seen how good he is with his stepchildren, having watched the younger girl throw herself into his waiting arms with a shriek of, “Papa!”  He pushes down the memory of the pang he’d felt at the annual barbeque he hosts for his colleagues and their loved ones, looking at the bizarre, unexpected quartet and seeing an unmistakably tightly-knit, loving family.  Because, although he hardly admits it even to himself, he longs for this: a loving companion to come home to, children to raise together…  His own family had cut ties with him - Hell, had essentially paid him off to go away - the moment they’d learnt he was gay.  Honestly, it had come as almost a relief: he gladly took the money to fund his dream and turned his back on the whole homophobic lot of them.  Only it means that now his club is the last and only thing he has left to call his own or care about…

 

Well, since that is the case…  The businessman snaps himself out of his nascent pity party…  Then, he’d better do what he does best: focus on the work and solve the problem.  He needs new talent?  Very well, here is a stack of applications to review.  Sure, many of his current dancers have a lot to offer: Jonah, the clean-cut military stud; Nicky, the romantic, deceptively sad-eyed Goth/emo hybrid; Antoine - piercings, tattoos, bad-boy-rocker vibes…  He needs someone completely different, with some kind of way about him…  

 

Only one candidate stands out.  Louis pretty much looks at scantily clad hot guys for a living, and the pictures still take his breath away.  With that face, dude should be an actor… or a model.  Or, Louis’ mind points out as his eyes travel downwards, maybe a porn star?  And, besides the obvious visual appeal, he catches something - theatrical? Otherworldly? - which makes him think, well, this guy’s got tricks.  Suddenly, unprofessionally, Louis finds his fingers rapidly dialing a stranger’s number.

 

“Allo?” two simple syllables, in a Gallic baritone instantly wrap him in perfumed silk.

 

Louis hopes his sudden squirming, much less his unexpected dry-mouth swallow, does not carry over the phone.  “Yes, good evening.” he hastily recovers his professional delivery.  “Do I have the pleasure of speaking to,” he cocks his eyebrow at the ridiculous, pretentious name, “Lestat de Lioncourt?”

Chapter 2: Private Dancer

Summary:

Lestat auditions. Everything is professional and normal.

Notes:

I swear, this is all done for the sake of character development, with no ulterior motives whatsoever!

TW (beware SPOILER): Unprofessional/ethically grey behaviour in a potential employer/employee dynamic and in a semi-public area- though everyone involved enjoys themselves. To be clear, this would NOT be OK "in real life," but this is a fantasy... and Lestat is into it, and in no way feels taken advantage of. Specific TW is in the end notes due to its spoiler nature.

Louis pauses in his pacing of the currently closed Azalea to draw a steadying breath.  Lestat (he has mentally switched to first names already) is here.  Just in the dressing room, changing for his audition.  They’d stayed on the phone for far too long, crossed many boundaries of the professional…  He already knows that the man he’s yet to see perform was born somewhere in the Auvergne region, crossed the Atlantic under difficult circumstances, quotes Shakespeare, adores dogs…  In turn, Louis has disclosed his obsessive reading (including, embarrassingly, pulpy queer “romances”); some of his favourite haunts (Lestat is new in town, it’s just a public service); his estrangement from his family (something they have in common); his photography hobby (and that he actually kinda sucks at it) - even his vision for The Azalea.  “Look, any fool with a half-decent body can get up there in a thong, and shake his ass, and call it ‘sexy’,” he’d spoken with a sudden passion, “I need… an artist.  Someone who can perform, not just take off his clothes; stimulate heads and hearts as well as hormones.”  And the voice on the other end of the line promised to deliver.  In fact, Lestat had offered to audition, not with the standard routine he’d offer regular patrons, but a full-on private dance, “just for you, mon ami.”  And, heedless of the voice in his head repeatedly saying, “bad idea,”... “mon ami” had said yes.

 

Now he’s acutely, almost painfully aware that they are all alone in an otherwise empty building; of his special-occasion, overpriced cologne which he, for some reason, couldn’t resist applying to his pulse points today; and, especially, of his own attire.  Perfectly fine, he hastens to assure himself.  He just had some heavy boxes to move earlier, that’s all - hence the tank top, so what if he just happened to pick a clingy, low-cut white one?  And the light-grey sweatpants…  Well, that’s just considerate: nothing worse than some jerk buying a lap dance dressed in denim, its nasty, rough fabric hurting the performer’s sensitive skin… and, really, who the Hell wears underwear with sweats?  Thus reassured of his own moral rectitude, Louis relaxes into the small couch in the private booth to wait.

 

When Lestat enters, the prospective employer’s heart skips a beat.  Or five.  It shouldn’t take him unawares this way: the photos he’s seen are hardly modest, and the dancer has the sort of beauty which shines through in anything, including casual street clothes, but this…  The blond strides - no, prowls - into the booth with an androgynous, feline grace, an apex predator moving in for the kill, pinning his “client” in place with the gaze of his iridescent eyes.  Legs from the ears, that one, especially glorious in his tight, red flared trousers…  Broad shoulders, tiny waist, both hidden by the coat which flares like wings behind him, a dramatic, dark-red thing trimmed with something barbarically resembling wolf fur… showing a tantalizing narrow “V” of chest, a sliver of flat stomach…  “Well, now, Monsieur du Lac,” that wide, sensual mouth spreads slowly in a dangerous smile, “let’s have some fun together, shall we?”

 

Louis can’t place the music - some sultry jazz-tinged instrumental - but, by the time Lestat pulls off his long, ladylike gloves with his teeth, and proceeds to honest-to-goodness tease at opening his coat like some dame in a Prohibition-era music hall, he simply cannot bring himself to care.  The coat falls…  A torso carved by randy angels, hidden only by a vest getting unbuttoned oh-so-slowly…  Yes, he knows how to dance, become one with the music, but that is not what makes him dangerous.  No, Lestat knows how to flirt : drawing ever closer, casting knowing looks at the mesmerized onlooker, licking his lips, and keeping up an easy stream of suggestive banter - all playful, “You’re so gorgeous,” breathy, “Je te veux, want you so much,” and unexpectedly tender, “cher, mon cher, cheri, mon coeur”…  Now, Louis isn’t stupid; of course he knows it’s all an act Lestat would put on for any paying customer, but that damned Frenchman is so good at selling it, making him feel sexy and wanted, almost convincing him he is the only man in the entire world…  In short, Lestat has only just shimmied himself out of those trousers and come to stand, gyrating, between his “client’s” knees, and Louis is already more than struggling to form a complete sentence.  He’s fucking hard.

 

He squirms, trying to hide it, but those eyes (Blue? Grey? Liz Taylor violet?) glide hypnotically down his body, clearly aware of thin white straps giving way to a plunging neckline; of the way the flimsy fabric doesn’t manage to obscure the dark, stiff nipples; the drawstring cinched so tightly around Louis’ small waist, and…  well, he’d bet money that he knows the reason for the brat’s sudden smirk.  Lestat sways, almost in profile now, and toys suggestively with the narrow string on the side of his thong, blond eyebrows quirking up in a silent question.  And, yes, in the private booths, for the right price, full nudity is allowed…  And, God help him, not trusting his dry throat to speak, Louis nods.  Six feet of perfection spin around before his eyes.  The g-string drops.  Lestat bends over, touching the floor, presenting a mouth-watering view of his museum-worthy ass.  And then…

 

He turns around.  Louis’ thighs tighten.  Lestat’s waxed, marble-smooth, which would make it feel even better to…  All at once, Louis’ salivating so much he’s forced to swallow.  Even half-hard, this man’s… a lot.  Lestat’s cock, like the rest of him, is beautiful - that slight upward curve, that vein, what it must look like fully hard…  And suddenly…

 

Suddenly, Lestat is in his lap.  Those ridiculously long, powerful legs caging him on either side.  That flawless body pumping in a timeless rhythm of desire, wearing nothing except its mane of pampered yellow hair.  The dancer arches his back, tossing his curls in a graceful performance of abandon.  Instinctively, Louis reaches up - so natural to simply grab those slender hips.  The blond wags a claw-manicured finger in reproof.  “Uh-uh,” he smirks.  “Hand to yourself, Monsieur; just lean back and let me take care of you.”

 

Good, a small part of Louis thinks, this one knows how to set a boundary while still keeping it sexy - such a necessary skill in this line of work - but also, the rebuke carries exactly the right hint of mean and dominant to make his cheeks heat up and his cock twitch with interest.  Obediently, he drops his hands.  Lestat stretches catlike, runs his fingers over his own neck, his chest, around his pink-pearl nipple… and sinks lower.  Grinding on Louis’ lap.  Fuck, the club owner blushes, that means he has to know, he can’t not feel it…  Louis attempts to pull back, but his body will not listen, or the dancer will not let him.  And, worst of all, the way the blond looks at this moment: whipping his golden hair, pale skin flushed shades of peony, moaning (not porn-performative, but oh-so-low) - well, anyone outside their business would believe that Louis is actually getting Lestat horny, that he’s the reason the Frenchman’s (holy fuck, the size of it!) dick is pointing nearly at the heavens.  

 

As for Louis’ own - it’s aching, leaking pre-come, begging with a primal need…  With a plummeting feeling down below his belly, the strip club owner (who, though jaded by his occupation, in fact leads a life of near-total abstinence) realizes he is moments away from having a major problem.  No, no, he can’t embarrass himself like some adolescent virgin - but Lestat’s thighs squeeze and tremble, and he suddenly cannot remember one sad poem or dull sports statistic.  Louis is just on the verge of digging his nails into his palm by way of sabotaging his traitorous body, when… light as a sunbeam, Lestat’s glossed lips press gently to his own.

 

And Louis’ mouth opens like a flower to receive them.  And the kiss deepens.  Not desperate, not dirty, but as tender as the Technicolor fantasies he’s harboured since he was a boy imagining himself a fairytale princess.  And he kisses back.  And Lestat’s tongue, gentle and venturesome, slides in.

 

And that proves his undoing.  Instantly, Louis’ entire body gives a single shudder.  He may (just barely) manage muffling his cry, losing it somewhere in Lestat’s rose-petal mouth… but the vibration…  His green eyes all but roll back in his skull with the intensity of trying, failing to hold back the tide.  Skin turning to goosebumps all over and toes curling, Louis comes - hard - in his pants.

 

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck; he roundly curses himself (Really?  Grey sweatpants with no underwear, you moron?); attempts to somehow hide the damage with leg crossing and strategic hand positioning as the exotic dancer to blame for his troubles blithely gathers up his clothes.  Of course, Lestat must see - how can he not? - and Louis will be lucky to avoid a lawsuit… but he gives no indication of it.  Were it not for something in the blond’s expression - wrecked and smug all at once, Louis just might believe he’d somehow got away with it.  All Lestat says, settling next to his prospective (but, whom are they kidding?) employer is, “Oh, by the way, this…” he touches his own lips, “This isn’t on the menu.  Let’s keep it as a special little secret, just for the two of us.”

 

“Good,” Louis answers with the honesty which comes from all his blood having fled far southward of his brain, “‘cause I don’t want you kissing any other man, ever.”  Fuck.  “I mean,” he hems and haws, “Y’know, The Azalea ain’t a brothel.  Don’t ever let a client pressure you.”

 

“Bien sur,” Lestat purrs, features beatific.

 

While he gets changed back into street clothes, Louis, under the guise of gathering the necessary paperwork, manages to strategically dump stale coffee on himself, hopefully explaining away the more suspect stain, and the need for a waist-wrapping sweatshirt.  Everything ends professionally enough.  And no one needs to know that, for less than a minute, he’d listened at the closed dressing room door - hey, he thought he heard a noise, was only checking Lestat was safe, that’s all…  Perhaps his ears had a caught a badly-suppressed moan which sounded rather suspiciously like, “Louis…”  Probably not, but he cannot help but think of it just before bed that night.  And the night after that.

Notes:

Specific SPOILER TW: Lestat auditions by performing a lap dance for Louis who, though not actually doing anything "wrong", gets... a little too excited. Lestat also (slightly) crosses the line, and possibly (or maybe not?) briefly has some solo fun in the club's (empty) dressing room.

Note: the song "Private Dancer" is featured on Tina Turner's album of the same name. It was originally written for Dire Straits, who found it unsuitable for a male vocalist.

Up next: Lestat begins working at The Azalea. It's fine, Louis is fine, we're all fine.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3: The Stripper

Summary:

Louis has various thoughts at work and discovers something about himself.

Notes:

Warning: Mr. Du Lac has a vivid imagination...

“Really, Louis?  Again?  You shouldn’t have… or is this some special employee perk I somehow missed in my contract?” Lestat teases, albeit with genuine warmth behind it.

  

“Nah, nothin’ like that,” Louis answers gruffly, pushing the carefully packed container of homemade pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw (organic, lower-carb and seed-oil-free) into the blond’s hands.  “Just made too much last night, that’s all - and I hate wasting food.”

 

“For the 3rd time this week?” the exotic dancer inquires slyly.

 

The businessman (who has, in fact, doubled his week’s quota of dinner ingredients and dusted off his recipe collection the day after he saw Lestat arrive with a meal of slimy, mismatched cold cuts - had he even checked for nitrates? - weird oyster crackers, and convenience-store coffee) shrugs.  “Hey, what can I say, I like to cook.  Besides,” he casts a deliberately cynical glance at his employee’s figure, “for the amount of weight you lift, you aren’t taking in nearly enough protein and calories.  My customers wanna see a stud, not a stick figure.”

 

(The time Lestat had come to work straight from the gym - neon-green crop top, hot pink sweats, and a description of his workout - well, Louis almost messed up a liquor order: his mind kept typing 69 for all the quantities - and, inexplicably, couldn’t get to sleep before watching a porno featuring a weight room, a blond, and an unusually helpful spotter).

 

The Frenchman snorts, “Is that what you prefer as well, mon cher?  A stud?  A rugged French stallion who’ll offer you protection from the wolves?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Du Lac waves it off, not at all blushing.  “Regular wolfkiller, that’s what you are…  Now, put the nice dinner I oh-so-kindly made for you in the fridge till your break, then get out on that floor and earn us some money.”

 

Louis has every reason to feel satisfied about his latest hire: so new, and already The Azalea’s top earner.  The Frenchman’s got far more to offer than a pretty face and considerable… considerables.  In fact, he could charm the stripes off a skunk (or the knickers off a nun); has a rockstar quality on a stage, and an actor’s way of morphing into any role required.  With nervous first-timers he is worldly, gentle; with groups of friends blowing off steam, casually crude; sweetly randy and giggly for bachelor and bachelorette parties; and the sight of a couple turns him into a hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold romantic…  Observing him performing truly is watching an artist at work.

 

And Louis finds that he really likes watching Lestat.  Not just in the way of a canny businessman contemplating an investment paying off handsomely.  No, every time he sees Mr. Lioncourt flirt as he leads yet another expertly hooked client to a booth for a private dance; each time the blond gyrates and sways onstage, basking in each audience member’s unabashed desire; each time the club owner, while dutifully peering over the tops of the booths (all performers are taught how to signal for help if the customer makes them uncomfortable), catches a glimpse of that fine figure grinding away in a lap dance…  Well, Louis gets hot .  And starts picturing things.

 

Of course, it’s perfectly normal for him to imagine fucking Lestat.  This tells him nothing except that he, Louis, is still a queer man with a pulse.  Heck, it’s not even entirely unprecedented: in fact, back when Armand debuted the act he’d codenamed “Boss,” Louis had plenty of fun imagining the beautiful dancer using thode fur-lined handcuffs of his to attach Louis’ wrists to the 

headboard and that flogger to redden his bum before fucking him through the mattress…  But with Lestat...  Sure, he pictures the two of them intertwined in just about every way possible, but sometimes, his mind brings him to unexpected places.  Like the way he imagines walking in on Lestat on his knees, giving some guy (he doesn’t bother conjuring up much of a face) a blow job… Sees himself watching, hard and breathless, before coming over to tug those pretty blond curls, make him go faster, harder, only to switch to softly caressing that face, which would look so hot with a mouthful of cock, telling the dancer how slutty he is, how good…  And, at a soft whisper, Lestat would eagerly change position, get on his hands and knees, so Louis can roll down his thong (the lacy pale blue one, he thinks), tenderly finger Lestat open until he’s ready for Louis to lube up and slip inside, nailing that sweet spot on every thrust, making him come, loudly despite the dick in his mouth…

 

The club owner shakes his head from side to side, trying to dislodge the fantasy.  Another one instantly takes its place.  In it, he and Lestat are kissing - passionately, romantically - hungrily devouring one another while a man (some fellow he’d seen yesterday gazing up at the Frenchman with something close to awe as his trembling fingers slipped a bill beneath the dancer’s garter) sits at their feet, working both their cocks at once.  After he makes them come (Louis would finish all over his face just from watching the guy swallow around Lestat’s thick shaft, trying and failing to take it all), they’ll get him off by making out again… only this time, with the other man’s cock between their mouths…  It will be messy, filthy, and so fucking hot…

 

Louis pinches himself, discreetly but almost hard enough to yelp.  “So, I guess that’s my thing, huh?” he addresses his own reflection in the nearest one of The Azalea’s many mirrors.  “Apparently, I like to watch…”  Having accepted this fascinating new revelation about himself, the businessman carries on with his nightly duties on autopilot while further unwelcome realizations rear their heads.  For one, as hot as he gets when he imagines watching Lestat take another man’s cock in his mouth or his ass, the instant his mind flickers to a picture of that imaginary man kissing Lestat, walking hand-in-hand with him, falling asleep with his arms around the blond… his head pounds and his stomach churns with nearly unbearable revulsion.

 

Because Louis’ fantasies about his newest dancer aren’t merely of the sexual kind.  Every time he cooks “leftovers” for Lestat, he imagines the latter right there in the kitchen, setting the table and sneaking tidbits to their oversized, kindly mastiff (What?  Since when and why do they have a mastiff?)...  After a long worknight, he wants to drape those long legs over his lap and massage Lestat’s aching feet - because of course they ache, victims of the exotic dancer’s curse of having to essentially perform acrobatics in uncomfortable shoes.  In exchange, Lestat - excessively proud of his 6-foot height and doggedly determined never to allow Louis (despite the latter’s evidently healthy build) to reach for items on high shelves or lift heavy objects again in his life - would carry in groceries, arrange the furniture, lift up the couch to search for lost trinkets…  Even when he glances at the blond onstage, effortlessly raising his ludicrously long leg into a vertical split (and gracing his employer with a sly, soft smile), Louis can’t help altering the scene in his mind, just enough to mentally adorn the dancer’s left hand with a gleaming band of gold.

 

“Hello, Earth to Louis Du Lac!  Where’d you go, Dubai?”  Daniel Molloy’s sarcastic voice bursts the balloon of the businessman’s meditations.  He and Armand have dropped by to blow off steam and say hello before the author departs for the next leg of his book tour.  Louis smiles: he’s always been fond of both men, and, now that Armand no longer works for him, the friendship has grown easier.

 

“Sorry, Danny, just some things on my mind.”  He intentionally affects a casual tone and tries to tune back in to Armand’s delighted, highly detailed account of little Katie’s accomplishments at her piano recital.  “Oh, Les!” he calls out to the passing blond.  “Left a labelled container for you in the fridge, so remember to grab it before you leave and let me know how it turned out: it’s dirty rice, but I’m trying it with riced cauliflower.  Lower carb and lighter, so it should be good for your cardio day…”

 

Lestat places his large hand over his heart.  “Oh, you spoil me, mon cher,” he purrs at Louis, ignoring the other two completely.  “All those exquisite recipes…  I like to think you create them in your cozy kitchen while wearing a pink, flowery apron… and nothing else.”

 

Louis snorts.  “Nope.  My apron’s black, printed with pictures of big sausages and the words ‘Brat Tamer’ on the chest.  As for the rest - I leave that to your imagination.”  He attempts to wink; somehow does it with both eyes.  Lestat walks away laughing.

 

“Well, then,” Armand’s eyebrows are so high they’re all but lost in his hairline.  “Looks like someone should be congratulated.”  He smirks.

 

Louis blinks like an owl in daylight.  “Huh?  What the heck for?”

 

Daniel   gives him the world’s loudest eyeroll.  “Please.  You are hitting that, aren’t you?”

Notes:

"The Stripper" is an instrumental composed by David Rose in 1958. It has since been used in movies, TV, at weddings during garter tosses...

Up next: Louis is shocked - shocked! - by such a vulgar suggestion.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 4: Heard It through the Grapevine

Summary:

Armand and Daniel continue to needle Louis, and raise a couple of interesting points.

Notes:

No TWs per se, but Armaniel are always their own brand of weird. Louis continues to have perfectly normal, clean, professional thoughts.

The Azalea’s owner practically quivers with righteous indignation.  “What?” he sputters, made angrier still by the amused looks on his friends’ faces.  “Lestat is an employee, I would never - there’s nothing whatsoever going on between us!  Where did you two get such a stupid idea?” 

 

Armand sighs dramatically, as if praying for patience.  “You take this one, Beloved.  After spending three days juggling an intense work project, two children, and volunteering for Lenore’s Junior Drama Club, I simply haven’t the energy.”

 

Daniel gleefully steps into the breach.  “Oh, I don’t know…  Why would anyone possibly suspect your motives for giving that blond bombshell a nickname, knowing his workout schedule, and cooking him dinner every night?  And if we somehow missed all that, the look you two just gave each other could send a hummingbird into a diabetic coma!  Please, Du Lac, do us all a favor: get out of De Nile before you drown.”

 

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Louis insists mulishly, not even particularly convincing himself.  “Besides, Les could have anyone he wants, he’s not interested…”

 

Armand tuts.  “Stop trying to be obtuse on purpose; it doesn’t suit you.  That overgrown French menace just sauntered over here to giggle, call you ‘dear’, and pretty much admit he touches himself to thoughts of you bare-assed in an apron.  How many more hints do you need? What do you expect - him to drop to his knees before you, purring ‘Stay with me tonight’ and telling you he wants you more than he wants anything in the world?!”

 

And, well…  Armand may be a manipulative gremlin, but he is the polar opposite of stupid.  Louis can’t help wondering if he’s right, going over his every interaction with Lestat: all of the innuendoes, little touches, the less-than-innocent flirtations.  Alas, his former dancer has more to say.

 

“You do make one valid point,” he holds up an elegant, claw-manicured finger, “a man like him can take his pick.  So, in your shoes, I wouldn’t drag my feet.  Heck, if you two ever decide to get - adventurous,” a luminous eye winks, “you have our number.”

 

The Molloys had never made a secret of their… colorful boudoir practices, once had even cheerfully tried to talk Armand’s former boss into a threesome.  Thus, Louis isn’t shocked…  But, suddenly, his mind summons a picture…  Armand, dancing less than a foot in front of him, shedding diaphanous blue lingerie to reveal his charms…  Only Louis can’t concentrate, can’t even understand what he’s meant to be looking at, because Lestat has him in his lap, bouncing Louis on his dick till he can’t string two words together; those thick fingers firmly holding the club owner’s chin, forcing him to look at Armand even as…

 

OK, that does nothing for Louis’ clarity of mind.  He shakes his head; pinches his arm.  Turns to Daniel who, unfortunately, chooses that very moment to say, “Yeah, sign me up for that!  Did you see the paws on Frenchie?  I mean, even pretending we don’t know what they say about men with big hands…  bet he gives one Hell of a spanking…”

 

His husband’s expression darkens vampirically.  “Oh, have I grown lax in giving you what you deserve, Beloved?”  He gives Daniel’s silver curls a mean tug, tilting his head into eye contact.  “Need I remind you tonight just how firm my hands can be?”  Armand pulls his spouse into a dirty kiss scarcely suitable for public viewing.

 

“Still…” the younger man softens at the palpable arousal in the older one’s features.  “I recognize the value of experiencing different approaches to - discipline.  And,” Louis would swear his smile suddenly sprouts fangs, “I do love to watch…”

 

Well, apparently, so do I…  Louis can’t help thinking.  Armand and I could sit side-by-side, playing with each other to the view of Daniel draped over Lestat’s lap…  That little scar would quirk up wickedly, the sensual mouth promising that, as good as it feels to make Danny take his hand, it will feel even better to make Louis take his cock…  Oh, for fuck’s sake!  What is wrong with you, Du Lac - get a grip!

 

“Enough, you pair of perverts!” he snaps with way more heat than his friends deserve.  “Put it back in your pants, and get out of my business!  I’m Lestat’s boss, so even if I - which I don’t - that’s, like, harassment!  Or, at the very least, unethical…  I’d never, I just couldn’t…”

 

Daniel holds up placating hands, but his voice sounds oddly gentle.  “OK, OK… but, please, really search your heart and decide what you want.  Just…don’t let standing on some abstract principle cost you a chance at love and happiness.  That’s all.”

 

“My Daniel is right,” Armand concurs, planting a goodbye peck on Louis’ cheek.  “And beware: if, by the time we visit here again, you haven’t found the guts to make your move…  We’ll book a private dance with your Lestat and see what trouble we get into… right in one of your own booths.  After all,” his wink is worthy of some creepy coven leader, “as I recall, it’s a roomy box…”

 

Great, just what I need, Louis inwardly grouses as he tallies the night’s earnings.  Yet another anxious layer added to his already confused thoughts.

Notes:

Chapter title from the song "I Heard It through the Grapevine"; many versions exist, with the one by Gladys Knight and the Pips being first, and Marvin Gaye's probably the most famous. Here, the line is just borrowed as a reference to gossip/nosiness, and the sadder lyrics do not apply.

What will poor Mr. Du Lac do next? Please watch this space...

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 5: Big Spender

Summary:

The Azalea gets a new regular customer. Everyone should feel thrilled, right?

Notes:

This chapter does contain a TW which may be upsetting for people; due to its spoiler nature, it is in the end notes. That said, please keep in mind the tag: nods to canon, but nothing truly horrible will happen in this story. Use your own judgement!

“Ooh, again?” Santiago-the-bartender’s jet-black eyebrows climb all the way up to his fright-wig-bleached hair.  “How much this time, and when do you two make it official?”

 

“Oh, va te faire foutre, Francis!” the usually charming and collegial Lestat snaps, casting an odd look in his boss’s direction.  “Make up whatever little plays you want inside your head, but don’t ask me to star in them!”

 

“What’s going on?”  Louis frowns, suddenly liking his night a lot less than he did a minute ago.

 

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” the perpetually drama-hungry bartender gleefully rubs his pale hands together.  “Our Lestat has got himself an admirer .”

 

Louis, just back from - reluctantly and for the first time in months - taking a weekend off, suddenly feels quite sick.  Beside him, Lestat curses again.

 

“Not ‘an admirer,’ just a repeat customer with more money than sense…” he begins, but Santiago cuts him off.

 

“Three nights straight the guy’s been back,” he gleefully stage-whispers, “Kind of old, sure, but loaded : orders our top-shelf drinks, overtips everyone, but, when it comes to him,” the bartender gestures lecherously at Lestat, “never seen anyone spend that much money on a stripper in my life.  Stares at Blondie here onstage, eventually books a private lap dance, won’t give anybody else the time of day…  I’m telling ya, Lou, somebody has a cru-ush. ” he finishes obnoxiously.

 

And to think this started off as such a good night…  Louis tries to remain discreet as he takes out his frustration on a recalcitrant lime, stabbing viciously at the tough peel… and nearly jumps when a large palm slams down on the bar with unexpected force.

 

“Oh, please!  Whatever Magnus, as he calls himself, wants from me, it’s about as romantic as a hostile corporate takeover!”  Broad shoulders shrug.  “He waves around his platinum credit cards, gets his lap dance…  Then, afterwards, asks me out - as if I’d ever, in any universe,” Lestat visibly cringes at the thought, “offers to ‘take me away from all this',” the sensuous mouth nearly twists with revulsion, “like I would want to give up the career I love to have some old bastard try to shut me away in his tower…”

 

Louis exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’s holding.  His immediate relief that Lestat hasn’t found himself a worthy suitor gives way to a graver concern.

 

“Hey,” green eyes seek out blue, “what sorts of lines has this guy been crossing?  He get handsy with you?  You need him kicked out?”

 

Lestat sighs, exasperated but not concerned.  “Non, he’s nothing I can’t handle…  I can’t seem to get it through his skull that he’ll never get more out of me than a paid performance - not without losing him as a client, anyhow, and that’s just bad business - and the way he talks about my blond hair, blue eyes and ‘milk-white skin’ grosses me out, but he’s not really doing anything wrong.  Don’t worry your pretty head about me, cheri.”

 

“OK, I trust your judgement,” Louis nods.  He’s hiding the heat rushing all sorts of places from hearing those last words while also acknowledging an ugly truth of this business; so many behaviours which would raise red flags if reported by “normal” people get easily dismissed when the targets are those who disrobe and present themselves as objects of desire for a living. 

 

 “But, the moment he disrespects you, or you feel something’s off,” without even thinking, he covers Lestat’s hand with his own, fingers squeezing and gazes locked together, “you come straight to me, yeah?  I’m all the security this place needs, and I’d never let something bad happen to you.”

 

Time itself seems to pause and the world hushes around the pair, allowing for a new understanding to pass between them.  Nothing has changed - and yet, everything has.  Even the typically garrulous and crude Santiago does not chime in.  Still, both men, conscious of his presence, hasten to defuse the gravity of the moment.  “So,” Lestat grins, intentionally lightening the mood, “you’d ride in and take care of it like my own knight in shining armour?”

 

“Hey…” Louis frowns in mock-offense as he walks away, “I am a knight.”

 

And, playful words aside, he means it.  Magnus shows up nearly every night that week.  Spends exorbitantly; sticks to his pattern.  Louis checks on the private booth he occupies, discreetly, but with extra vigilance.  Lestat never signals for help and, as befits a consummate professional of his craft, puts on an exemplary performance which, judging by the avid look in the client’s colourless eyes, more than satisfies… but, Louis knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that the dancer does not enjoy it - if only by the way Louis himself feels, instead of his customary arousal, a dark void at the bottom of his stomach.  Yes, Magnus does wonders for The Azalea’s bottom line.  And, as far as Louis is concerned, he can’t leave fast enough.

Notes:

TW: Implied/described creepy behaviour by a client toward an exotic dancer: hints of stalking (showing up every night for the same dancer); boundary crossing/harassment overtones (repeatedly asking the dancer on dates and ignoring lack of interest); comments on appearance suggesting racist attitude (excessive admiration of stereotypically Caucasian features)... Just to iterate: yes, Magnus is in this story and he's not nice; no, nothing really horrible will happen to Lestat... THAT thing definitely won't. I promise.

Chapter title: "Big Spender" is a song by Dorothy Fields and Cy Coleman, from the musical "Sweet Charity."

Thank you so much for reading and supporting!

Chapter 6: Sometimes in Our Lives, We All Have Pain, We All Have Sorrow

Summary:

Magnus can't seem to take a hint...

Notes:

The specific TWs for this chapter are in the end notes due to spoilers.

General TW: Magnus being Magnus, mild peril and violence/injury, implied creepy stuff

Just to emphasize: NO SA/attempted SA will occur, actions will have consequences, and Lestat is going to be fine.
As always, take care of yourselves first!

Some medical advice will be given in this chapter; it's somewhat researched but, obviously, mostly a plot device, so take with a teaspoon of salt!

Lestat glides purposefully over to his employer.  He wears a performative smile, but it does not reach his eyes.  “Psst…  Louis, I need your help.” he hisses.

 

“Name it.”  The other man instantly answers, concerned eyes taking in the dancer’s stressed appearance.

 

“Quick, act like my boyfriend: touch me, kiss me, whatever…  Desole, but I have tried everything else I can think of to get Magnus to take the hint, and it’s not working…”  The blond gestures subtly with a tilt of his head.

 

The club owner smooths the Frenchman’s pretty yellow curls in a deliberately affectionate gesture, while tracking the all-too-familiar figure: silver hair, old-fashioned clothes, gripping an expensive-looking cane… and staring mask-like, unblinking at Lestat.  Fuck, that’s creepy.  “OK.  What’s he done this time?” Louis asks while lightly stroking Lestat’s cheek.

 

Glitter-dusted lids hide blue eyes in a momentary glimpse of exhaustion.  “It’s getting out of hand, mon ami…  I gave him his lap dance, but the idiot still won’t leave.  Tried to buy me a drink, even though I’ve already told him I can’t do that, not even if I wanted to.  Keeps monopolizing my attention during the stage show, to the point that it’s throwing off the other performers and souring the vibe for the audience.”  The Frenchman slides closer, close enough to radiate body heat.  “Pretty certain he plans on booking a private dance again, and I simply can’t endure it twice in one night, cheri.  I suspect that convincing him I’m taken is the only way we’ll get him out the door without causing a scene.”

 

And if that doesn’t work, Louis thinks viciously, I’ll give the fucker a scene.  Oh, I’ll give him a scene worthy of Quentin Tarantino…  The next second, he’s pulling Lestat to him with all the urgency of a drowning man grabbing onto a life preserver.  Kissing Lestat as though their lives depend on it.  And Lestat responds to him as if made for this, as if two halves have finally found each other to form one whole.  Their bodies nearly meld; hardness presses against hardness; two hearts begin to beat in sync.  It seems as though Louis’ entire life was meant to lead up to this: kissing Lestat right here, right at this moment.

 

Behind the bar, Santiago starts to wolf-whistle.  Several patrons hoot and clap.  Louis pulls away, painfully excited and morbidly embarrassed, but, hey, mission accomplished: He just catches sight of Magnus furiously stomping his way out of the building, cane thumping erratically on the floor.  “Merci, Louis,” Lestat purrs, pupils dilated and lips still kiss-swollen.  “I only wish…” he pauses; drops his voice to a whisper, “that this act between us was real.  Because for me…” one last brush of those long fingers down Louis’ arm, “... it certainly would be.”

 

The dancer glides off toward the dressing room to re-apply his lipstick.  The club owner leans on the nearest wall for a long minute, feeling the bartender’s stare burn a hole through the back of his head and willing his NSFW semi to go down.  He can’t take it anymore.  He has to talk this out with Les tonight… but not yet.  First, he needs to get his head on straight. This means avoiding a certain blond at all costs: just one more smile, one more glance, and that French menace will have Louis on his knees right here, in front of everyone…

 

******

 

At closing time, Louis deliberately lingers over some paperwork, stalling and getting his nerves in check.  Somehow, he feels certain that, delay or not, Lestat will be waiting for him.  He finally opens the door leading to the parking lot, only to hear the unmistakable sound of an impact, followed by that instantly recognizable baritone angrily crying out, ”My face!  You son of a bitch, my face!”

 

Louis all but flies toward the noise.  In the streetlights’ harsh glare, a bizarre sight: Magnus, his earlier masklike calm replaced with ugly, twisted rage, swinging his cane with surprising strength at Lestat, empty-handed but undaunted, hissing like a cat as he defends himself.  The nearest streetlamp’s light catches his hair; for the blink of an eye, it seems to have been dyed red; then doused with ketchup… dear God, Louis’ heart clenches, he’s hurt, he’s bleeding!  The club owner closes the distance between them in record time, but, before he can come to his employee’s aid…

 

Ducking under the aimed blow, the dancer grabs hold of his assailant’s cane and, using his body’s momentum, wrenches it from Magnus’ grasp.  The older man stumbles backward while Lestat, in one rough, adrenaline-driven motion, snaps the wood in two over his knee.  Tosses both halves aside; advances, limbs relaxed and fists up, close to his body.  “Come on, then,” he growls, “Put your hands on me again if you think you can manage it in a fair fight…  You don’t even come close to what my so-called father used to do to me ever since I could walk - and I wasn’t scared of him, either.”

 

Magnus retreats a little, face reverting to a mask once more despite his rapid breathing.  He holds up one hand in a gesture of would-be appeasement; the other gropes closer to his pocket.

 

“Don’t.”  

 

Louis’ voice low, dangerous.  “You feel that sharp point at your back?  One wrong move, and I stick you like the cochon you are.  Eyes front; keep your hands up where I can see them.”  He waits for the would-be assailant to comply.  “Now, slowly, kneel down on the ground.  Ya hear those sirens, fucker?”

 

Sure enough, the blaring and the flashing lights draw near.  Police car; ambulance.  Unprompted, Lestat, hands up, moves slightly to stand protectively in front of Louis as the latter drops the object he’d held to Magnus’ back: a splintered half of Magnus’ own cane.  Officers emerge, processing the scene, asking their questions, something Magnus endures in sullen silence, Lestat attempts to complete as fast as possible, and Louis, arguably, only complicates by alternately professing Lestat’s innocence (“I swear, he only defended himself, officers, that dirtbag tried to… well, I don’t even want to say, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, he’s been creeping on Lestat all week, got witnesses and everything…”) and insisting on his need for medical attention (“Please, look at him, he’s bleeding, could have a concussion, Lestat needs to see a doctor, now…”).  The officer in charge, a solid, no-nonsense woman named Ms. Williams, has to get quite stern to snap him out of it.  At that point, it finally emerges that no one has the slightest interest in getting Lestat into trouble because

1. He’s the one who, using the buttons on the side of his cell phone, had called 911 in the first place
2.  His account of events, perfectly succinct and plausible, is also easy to corroborate because Magnus stupidly tried to corner Lestat in full view of one of The Azalea’s security cameras.  (Upon reflection, Louis probably should have led with that.)
3. Almost immediately, Magnus’ full name pops up in connection with another, more serious, ongoing investigation.  This, combined with the Taser found in his pocket, hardly serves to endear him to the law enforcement officers.

 

The first responders hustle all three men in separate directions: an officer puts Magnus, handcuffed, in the back of the cruiser; the EMT, a stunning Black woman whose name tag reads “Ms. Lily” hustles Lestat to the ambulance to get checked out; Officer Williams accompanies Louis into the club to review the security footage.  That ends up showing Magnus lying in wait for the dancer, engaging him in visibly unwanted conversation and blocking his path.  As the younger man attempted to walk away, the older aggressively grabbed his arm and, when Lestat pulled it back, struck him on the head with his cane.  Self-defense thus firmly proven, Ms. Williams shakes her head.  “Yup, that guy’s a nasty piece of work.  Been on our radar for a while now, but we couldn’t get anything to stick.  Can’t say much, but, once your man feels better, if y’all would come to the station and give a statement… well, let’s just say it would help some things get moving.”

 

My man, Louis thinks wistfully, not bothering to correct the officer.  Instead, he turns over the footage to her, rushing to conclude this part so he can check on Lestat.  He finds the blond, cleaned and patched up, sitting at the ambulance’s entrance with Ms. Lily.  Those blue eyes light up at the sight of him.  Louis instantly crouches down to peer into his face, concerned.

 

“How is he doing, ma’am?” he asks.  “Do we need to go to the hospital?”

 

Lestat at once begins to protest.  The EMT gives him an indulgent smile.  “No, I don’t think that’s necessary: head lacerations tend to bleed a lot and look quite scary, but this cut’s only about 2 centimeters and I’ve treated it.  I see no sign of a concussion, so, as long as you can stay with him for at least the next 24 hours?”

 

Louis nods.  “Of course.  I live nearby, I’ll get him home straightaway and take care of him…

 

“... and make sure he’s resting, preferably keep him in bed,” Ms. Lily pauses, wagging a playfully admonitory finger, “not that way, mind you: that shouldn’t happen for at least a day or two.  Good rule of thumb: if you don’t feel up to exercising, you’re not ready for sex.”

 

Lestat snorts.  Louis blushes, sputters something about how he’d never…  The EMT meticulously talks both of them through all the necessary instructions regarding rest, cold compresses, pain relief (no NSAIDS), any symptoms to watch out for…  She concludes, regarding the men now unconsciously leaning on each other with something close to fondness.  “Well, we’ve had a scare, but got off pretty lightly.  You’re in good hands.” she reassures Lestat, before turning to Louis.  “And your…” eyes doing a quick scan of their fingers, “...partner is going to be just fine.”

Notes:

Specific TWs: Magnus borderline stalks/harasses Lestat at work, making him feel uncomfortable. He tries to corner Lestat outside the club and, upon being refused, grabs Lestat's arm and strikes him, inflicting a minor injury. He's implied to have unsavoury intentions toward Lestat, but no details are given, and he only succeeds at getting subdued by Lestat and Louis, and arrested by the police. It is also implied that Magnus has attracted law enforcement attention in connection with some other crime, perhaps a worse one, but no specifics of that emerge either. Lestat also briefly mentions his father, as in canon, being physically abusive toward him.

Additional notes:

It varies by make and model, but there does seem to be a way to program one's cellular phone to quickly and discreetly call 911 by either pressing the power button on the side a certain number of times in succession, or holding down 2 of the buttons simultaneously.

The chapter title is taken from Bill Withers' song "Lean on Me."

Up next: Lestat and Louis talk (not a euphemism)...

Thank you for reading; this was pretty much the darkest this story will get.

Chapter 7: No More Lonely Nights

Summary:

Louis and Lestat talk...

Notes:

TWs (a bit of a spoiler): The attack is discussed, not in graphic detail, and Lestat is, all things considered, doing very well. Lestat also references his fairly canon-aligned childhood; nothing at all is graphically described, but we do learn that he got the scar on his mouth while intervening to stop his father harming Gabrielle.

Other than that, what we have here is TLC, a long-overdue conversation, and, oh, yeah, Louis' vivid imagination at work once more.

“OK, Les, let’s just put on the cold compress for another ten minutes, yeah?’ Louis urges, positioning the towel-wrapped object just so against his temporary housemate’s forehead.  Since the temperature seems to bring Lestat greater relief than the Tylenol, Louis is happy to make as many trips as it takes to and from the freezer.  He sets the timer on his phone, continuing the efficient fussing he has carried on non-stop since they arrived despite the turmoil in his mind and heart.  These are currently buzzing like an agitated beehive with some brain-frying combo of ravenous, libidinous arousal and domestic fondness.  After all, currently in his hamper are Lestat's clothes (“Hey, no trouble at all, I planned to do the laundry tomorrow anyway” - OK, he totally didn’t, but he probably should) which - don’t ask how he knows this - still smell of him; and, currently in his bed, is Lestat himself, wearing only Louis’ tiniest robe, which only covers him to mid-thigh, exposes quite a triangle of chest and, in general, leaves very little to the imagination.

 

“You take such tender care of me,” the blond smiles sentimentally, “my good nurse…”

 

“Yeah?” Louis teases while fluffing the other man’s pillow.  “Should I put on my uniform?”

 

The blue eyes open wider.  “You own a nurse’s uniform?”

 

Green eyes twinkle back.  “Uh-huh.  The whole deal: red cross cap, tight white dress so short it didn’t reach the lace on the top of the matching white stockings…”  He sees Lestat swallow convulsively and shrugs, “Just a character I tried during the short time I used to strip.”

 

A blond eyebrow goes up in a silent question.

 

Louis nods.  “Yeah.  I’d taken dance in high school in order to get out of gym class, and Tom Anderson was a stupid old lech, so, the moment I saw the way his eyes raked over my body, I knew this was my best way to learn all the ins and outs of his business, and steal the club right out from under his nose.  Besides,” he turns more serious, “if I planned to be the boss, I never wanted to ask my performers to do something I myself hadn’t experienced.”

 

Lestat quietly squeezes his fingers.  After about a minute, Louis gently asks, “Umm…  Les, are you…  OK?  I know the injury itself seems minor, but still… what that bastard probably had on his mind…  And, no matter what, you were the victim of a violent crime, and…” he looks down awkwardly at his feet, “I heard what you said - about your father…”

 

Lestat nods, grimly but without pain.  “Yes, he abused me, and my mother.  That’s how I got this,” he taps the scar at the corner of his mouth, “the fucker went for her after she slept with someone else to spite him… but I wasn’t a child anymore: I got in between, and showed him just how tough his cruelty had made me… and this time, the police were called.  Maman got her divorce, and got a real nice settlement in exchange for lesser charges; we split that.  So, yes, Louis,” the Frenchman smiles, “I am OK.  Magnus made me angry, sure, but not afraid: I’ve handled worse, and now I’ve handled this.  And this time, mon cher, I had you on my side, too.”

 

They sit in silence for a little while, choosing to ignore their linked hands.  So still that Louis thinks Lestat must have finally fallen asleep, and shuts his own eyes.  But…

 

“Louis…” soft, inquisitive.

 

Instantly, the other man snaps to alertness.  “What is it?  You feel sick?”  He peers anxiously at his companion.

 

A slow shake of the head.  “Non.  Louis, how come you never asked me out?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Lestat tuts impatiently.  “Come, you’re clearly interested - I don’t know whom you think you’re fooling - and I daresay I haven’t been too subtle, either… yet you don’t make a move.”

 

“I mean, I… we just met,” Louis evades, “I didn’t know if - why would I even think a catch like you could possibly be single?”

 

Kind of a lie: easy enough to note the utter lack of an emergency contact on an employee form, so he knows there is no one.  He just wants to hear Lestat explain it.

 

The other man sighs.  “Because I am… a lot; too much, in fact, and I want too much.  Oh, don’t get me wrong - I’m so ready to settle down: a husband, kids, the whole thing… but no one seems to want that with me, not on my terms…”

 

“And those are?” Louis prompts when the blond trails off.

 

“I’m a slut.” Lestat states simply.  “But any guy who might want to get serious, first thing he wants to do is change that: asks me when I plan to stop stripping, demands I commit to no one else ever touching, or even looking at, my body again.  Well, I don’t want that!”  He sits up a little straighter, eyes flashing violet.  “I love my job, and I’m not simply in it for the money: to be desired like that turns me on, makes me feel powerful; I plan to keep on doing this until age makes it necessary for me to change careers.  I also love sex, and, from time to time, enjoy - variety.”  

 

Louis frowns; asks his next question very cautiously.  “So, what are you looking for, Les?  Polyamory?  An open marriage?”

 

“No.”  Yellow curls shake from side to side.  “Nor would I ever lie or cheat: my heart and loyalty would belong completely to my husband, till the day I die.  I’d just want our love life - in a safe, negotiated way - to be adventurous: fantasies, voyeurism, exhibitionism, a threesome from time to time…”

 

His features stay firmly set, but his eyes search his companion’s face inquiringly.  Louis takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts before speaking.  “OK, Les, I’m glad you shared what a relationship on your terms means…  Now, here are mine.”  He scoots closer, capturing Lestat’s gaze.  “I meant what I said on the first day we met: I don’t want you kissing another man, ever again.   And this,” his gesture encompasses the bed, the room, “us taking care of each other, talking heart-to-heart, planning a life together - this has to be for us alone.  But the rest:” he takes both of Lestat’s hands in his own, “babe, you are the Baryshnikov of exotic dancers - I’d never want to shut away that kind of talent, hoard it for myself alone…  I love the thought of getting excited at work every night, knowing you’re in a private booth taking your thong off for some guy, but also knowing your wedding ring stays on.  I want you to slowly, tenderly make love to me on blanket spread out on a secluded white-sand beach in a tropical Paradise - and bend me over a bench in a sex club so everyone can watch you slap my ass, hard, as you fuck me nasty…  I’d like to lay you down on satin sheets and rose petals in a honeymoon suite, worship every inch of your body with my hands and my mouth the way my beautiful bridegroom deserves - and have you on all fours between me and your other lover so we can fill both your holes at once the way my dirty slut needs it…”

 

They’re now pressed thigh to thigh.  Louis is almost painfully hard, but his eyes are also damp, because both the desire and the love he has been hiding have broken through to come pouring out of him.  “Because I want everything in life with you, Lestat: to hide in the shelter of your arms, crying away a horrible day because I know you’d never make me feel ashamed of my tears, and to have your smug smirk humiliate me so deliciously because you’ve just made me come in my pants again; to take care of you when you’re in bed with a tummy bug; to go hiking in the woods with our dog, and sneak off into a secluded spot so you can blow me; to argue with you over what to watch on TV; to find out how gorgeous you look underneath me with pink, furry handcuffs securing your wrists to the headboard and a vibrator in your ass - and how angelic you will look rocking our baby in your arms as I fix dinner; to grow old and pass into Eternity still loving you…”

 

That instant, a large hand wraps around the back of Louis’ head, and, for the second time tonight, Lestat is kissing him.  He finally breaks for air to reverently whisper, “I love you, mon Louis.”

 

“I love you, too, Lestat.”  Their foreheads press together.  A full minute of blissful stillness.  Then…

 

“So, again, why didn’t you ask me out?”

 

Reality hits like cold water poured on a cat.  Louis pulls back.  “Because I’m, well, technically your boss.  It’s unethical…”

 

Unexpectedly, Lestat lets out one of his disconcerting bursts of laughter.  “That’s it?!  Eh bien, then I shall simply invest in The Azalea, not enough to take control of the club you love, of course, but enough for us to become business partners!”  Louis’ bewildered look clues him in that some further explanation may be necessary.  “Oh, did I never tell you?  Mon pere did not have many admirable qualities, but he was an extremely wealthy man.  Between the divorce and the civil settlement, Maman and I did rather well.  I may have been a stupid teenager then, but not too stupid to retain the services of an exceptional law firm to handle my affairs.  Monsieur Roget invested wisely on my behalf; by now, though I’m no multi-millionaire, I’m, shall we say, financially secure.”  Seeing the other man still wavering, he gives him a playful shove and his most adorable puppy-eyed stare.  “Go on, mon cher…  Think of it as a sort of… unlimited partnership, from business to boudoir?  Come, Louis - nod your beautiful head and say ‘yes’.”

 

It’s so ridiculous that Louis cannot help laughing as he nods.  Their lips meet one more time… and then, they both recall Ms. Lily’s admonition.  Oh.  It’s going to be a long 48 hours.

Notes:

The chapter title is a Paul McCartney song.

Up next... OK, they've talked, and the 48 hours have passed, so...

Thank you for reading. You are amazing!

Chapter 8: Stay with Me, sway with Me

Summary:

Louis and Lestat spend 3 days together...

Notes:

Mild TW (spoiler): Implications that Magnus may have been planning crimes aligned with his canon ones. Brief and non-detailed, and, to be clear, the authorities got alerted in time, and no one has actually been harmed.

Otherwise, we get a glimpse of Lestat and Louis being 100% normal about each other.

In an unprecedented move, Louis actually takes a whole three days off from work, and insists Lestat do the same.  For 48 hours, they mostly take it easy (and count down the minutes), although the dancer insists on giving his statement at the police station the very next morning.  The officers treat him with courtesy, even as they take photos of his injuries, though one of them casually muttering to his partner, “Blond hair, blue eyes - of course,” does not exactly put Louis at ease.  On their way out, the couple gets quite the surprise as they bump into…

 

“Armand?!”  Louis exclaims.  “What are you doing here?”

 

The former dancer looks around and lowers his voice.  “Consulting.  Let’s just say that my… unique (some would call it off-putting) relationship with data and technology can come in quite handy in detecting unsavoury online behaviour.”  The ethereal features darken.  “I came in to submit my findings on a particularly loathsome character who, judging by his activities on the dark web, had a thing for tall, blue-eyed blond boys and plans to commit some rather repulsive crimes.”  Arun’s elegant fingers lightly pat Lestat’s shoulder.  “Don’t worry,” he says, softly, “we caught it in time.  He won’t be able to hurt anyone again.  In case you happen to know anyone who might have felt targeted.”

 

Instinctively, Louis wraps a protective arm around his partner.  It doesn’t go unnoticed.  Armand grins.  “Ah, splendid: I see you took my advice and made your move.  Well, congratulations to you both: you are his destiny, Louis.”  He appraises Lestat like a scientist intent on studying a specimen.  “And, should you choose the surrogacy route, have certainly doubled your chances of having singularly attractive children.”  His watch dings gently with an alert.  “Oops, I must run: time to pick up the girls from day camp.  They’ve made wonderful strides toward independence lately, but they nonetheless need the adults in their lives to maintain a comforting routine.  Oh, by the way,” the departing figure turns partway to deliver a parting shot, “Daniel’s offer, and mine, still stands, if you two are interested.”

 

“What offer?” Lestat frowns, a bit flummoxed.

 

Arun’s unusual amber eyes twinkle.  “Us having a foursome, of course… and, before you ask, I absolutely hate golf.”  With that, he walks away with a dancing gait, leaving the other two men pondering all the possibilities.

 

*******

 

On day three, Lestat does an experimental workout and pronounces himself sufficiently recovered.  Louis, though understandably enthusiastic, nonetheless insists on certain precautions.  “Nope.”  he raises an admonishing finger the moment the blond, unabashedly naked, sits up and tries to reach for him.  “You just lie down, mister.  Let me do all the work.”

 

Obediently, Lestat stretches out his long, lean body in appealing languor.   Louis locks lips with him, lightly and with no seeming urgency; moves the kisses downwards from cheekbone to chin to neck.  Trails the kisses down that pale throat, the middle of the sculpted chest before lavishing attention on each pink nipple in turn - not even sucking, only wetting and hardening them with little licks.  By the time those full lips explore every muscle on the dancer’s abdomen, Lestat is breathing hard and arching off the bed into the touch.  By way of “punishment,” he gets a playful shove back down toward the sheets, and the skilled mouth retreats, only to nearly overstimulate the sensitive underside of his knee…  Louis takes a meandering path back up, exploring for erogenous zones on the inside of his lover’s thigh.  Lestat’s cock stands swollen, pointing straight up, without a single touch.

 

And Louis does not take it in his mouth.  Instead, he measures every inch in kisses which become kitten licks, his tongue finally, eagerly lapping up the pre-come forming on the sensitive slit.  His left hand grips Lestat’s erection at the base, groaning at its girth; his right moves up and down between his own thighs, seeking to relieve the pent-up ache.  His tongue drags all the way up, slowly, tasting every vein and curve.  Again.  And again.

 

“Louis, mon ange,” Lestat whispers, “Please, I won’t last like this…”

 

“Then do it, baby,” the Creole comes out strong in the nearly-wrecked voice.  Louis’ legs tremble so much he can scarcely keep from falling down onto the sheets.  “Please…  Want it messy, I’ve never… never…” he fucks his own fist with increasing desperation, “let a man come on my face, but I…  I need you to…”

 

“Ah… cheri, cheri…” Lestat gasps, large hand wrapping around his throbbing hardness.  Moments later, he paints streaks of white over Louis’ nose and cheeks, into his open mouth, onto the willingly extended tongue.  Doesn’t even give himself the chance to fully ride out his orgasm before his strong arms pull Louis up on top of him.  Kisses the scarcely-cooled proof of his pleasure off the other man’s face.  Pushes his tongue greedily into a mouth still tasting of sex.  Their kiss is so loving, and so dirty, that, without warning, Louis’ hips jerk violently…  A drawn-out moan, muffled, mouth-to-mouth; a gush of wet heat between their bellies.

 

The couple snuggles sleepily.  Louis casts a lazy look around his partner’s bedroom.  Just like the rest of Lestat’s recently purchased townhouse, it’s lovely, but still half-empty, unsettled, as if it has been waiting for someone to finally arrive.  “Les, honey?” he softly calls out.

 

“Mon coeur?” a drowsy murmur.

 

“Do you have a spare key?  I’d like to start moving my things in here tomorrow, if that works for you…”

 

Lestat does not fully open his eyes, but his sensuous mouth spreads in a warm smile.  “Bien sur, my love…” he whispers; presses closer, already drifting into sleep.

 

Louis stays awake a little longer, making a few quick mental notes about what he really needs to take, and how soon.  His laptop and fireproof safe; his clothes; his precious library, of course - so many nice shelves here just wasted, waiting to be filled… but, then again, Lestat’s kitchen, despite its state-of-the-art architecture is missing crucial tools and gadgets, the contents of the fridge are plain deplorable, and nothing looks like it has seen any use at all…  No wonder Lestat can’t be trusted to feed himself!  Yes, Louis decides as he finally shuts his eyes, he’ll start with the kitchen.

Notes:

The chapter title uses lyrics from "Sway." This song, a translation of the Spanish "Quien sera?" has been around since ca. 1954 and performed by artists ranging from Dean Martin to Michael Buble.

Up next: The boys make an... interesting phone call.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 9: Hey, Baby, I'm Your Telephone Man

Summary:

Louis and Lestat make a phone call to entertain Armand while Daniel's away. Sorry, we're all out of plot today...

Notes:

Note: Here, Armand (a stage name) and Arun (a legal name) are used interchangeably, without any particular baggage or persona attached to one versus the other.

Shameless smut incoming...

“My Beloved and I have strict rules about this,” Armand had patiently explained, “physical intimacy with the two of you must wait till both of us can be present.”  (The writer is still on his book tour.)  “I can, however, offer a work-around - a sort of teaser-trailer, if you like.”

 

Which is how Louis found himself here: with Lestat, in their office at The Azalea, dialing a number and putting the phone on speaker.  Immediately, the room fills with the mesmerizing timbre of Armand’s hypnotic voice.  “Bonsoir, Louis,” the disembodied voice nearly sing-songs, “how kind of you and Lestat to call and keep me company, with my husband away from home…”

 

Louis hums a little.  “I will, anyway.  Les misbehaved a bit, so he’s in trouble.”

 

He can practically hear Armand’ smile spread through his tone.  “Oh?  He’s getting disciplined?  Please tell me you have him draped across your lap, or,” the voice grows even breathier, “perhaps you need my guidance on how to handle a brat…”

 

“Not that kind of punishment,” Louis shakes his head.  “He just needs to practice being good; so, I’ve got him on his knees, hands behind his back: he’s not allowed to use them, just his mouth…  Speaking of…  D’you want to say ‘hi,’ Les?”  He brings the phone closer to that little scar.

 

“Bon soir, mon petit diable,” Lestat purrs into the phone.

 

The disembodied voice sounds unperturbed.  “Well, hello, Brat…”  Switches to a normal register to ask, “Do we have your enthusiastic consent to this game?”

 

“Yes… shall we play?”

 

Louis discreetly gives his partner a final once-over on top of his earlier fussing (“That cushion comfortable enough for your knees, hon?  Remember, if your hands start to bother you, move them - nothing sexy about your arms falling asleep.”) before, finally satisfied, directing, “OK, baby - show me how you like to suck my cock, I need your mouth…”  He is already hardening, just from the thought of it.  Tries to keep his voice steady as he urges, “Talk to me, Arun…”

 

And the latter’s words fill the air, already breathy, but not yet out of control.  “I’m just here, lying on my bed - so lonely and cold, with my Beloved so far away… trying to satisfy myself with the vibrator inside me and my own hand caressing my cock… slowly…”

 

“Yeah?” Louis prompts, lovingly running his fingers through blond hair.  “Poor thing…  I’ve got Lestat sucking me off right now - feels so good, he’s so eager for it…”

 

“I’ll bet he is… the slut…” a vicious note spikes just so through the honeyed voice; sends a muffled moan reverberating from Lestat’s throat.  “Can’t go too long without a cock, any cock, in that mouth.  I think that, when we’re all together,” Arun’s words tumble faster, interrupted by sensual little sighs, “I’ll make you watch as I fuck your French whore’s pretty face while my Daniel rides him, hard - You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Louis?”

 

“Fuck, yeah…  I would,” Louis grits out, “Oh, God, Les, honeychild, no one sucks cock like you…  I’d watch, and - ah! - touch myself till I… oh, baby, easy, don’t hurt your throat… it’s so deep… till I come all over… Lestat’s sexy abs… the two of you can lick it off him while I get between his legs and take… take him…  Yes, baby, lick me the way I like, from base to head, tease me, but, for fuck’s sake, don’t stop…”

 

Lestat intensifies his ministrations, doubly excited by his partner’s praise and the listener’s provocation.  Meanwhile, Armand continues.  “Got my vibrator on… its highest setting, and… still not enough…  Need a dick in me so bad, Louis…  You’d like to watch your man fuck me, right?  And… he’s big, isn’t he?”

 

Louis’ thighs tremble and breath hitches as trying to delay his orgasm despite Lestat’s mouth, Armand’s dirty talk, turns into a losing battle.  “So big: biggest dick I’ve ever had,” he finally manages while licking his lips.  “Last night, when Les put it in so slowly, opening me up like a… a virgin bride… he had me… begging for it like… like a bitch in heat,” his fingers pinch his own nipple to remind him he mustn’t thrust into the wet heat of that throat, “and then… when, finally, he pounded my ass like a whore, he… made me come twice, I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so loud, I… fuck, oh, fuck, honey, baby, angel…”  Endearments give way to mindless moans as Louis’ climax crashes into him like a wave.

 

Armand strokes himself a little faster, picturing the visuals which must accompany those sounds.  There is some shuffling, and then a new voice comes on the line.  “Having fun listening in, gremlin?”  The slight rasp makes the Gallic baritone even sexier.  “Bet you’d prefer to watch…”

 

“Hmm, yes…  Wish I could see you…”  Armand’s control slips, just a little.  “Both of you, so beautiful together…  Tell me what you’re doing…”

 

Obligingly, Lestat narrates.  “Louis has me bent over the desk…  Ass up…  Planting the sweetest little kisses on…  Please, cher, take it off me…  Fuck, I still have my thong on - Louis has only pushed the string off to the side, and his tongue…  His tongue is right against… against my…”

 

A low groan cuts off the blond’s speech as Louis holds him open, licking him with a wet ferocity, lets his tongue fuck into the tight, pink flower.  He wants to simultaneously reward Lestat properly for the mind-blowing (heh) performance, and get his revenge on him for the embarrassment of their first meeting.  So…

 

“Please, talk to me, Lestat, don’t stop…  I’m close…” Arun now moans unabashedly. 

 

“Mon ange is eating me out…  Feels so good…”  Lestat sounds half-feral himself.  “And touching me… but only through the cloth, and so, so lightly…  Just ghosting his fingers over…  But my cock’s so hard it aches, I need him to…  Please, Louis, Louis!”

 

“No, don’t…” Armand pleads, his own hips pumping frantically into his fist.  “Drive that brat crazy for me, Lou…   “His thong must be… so wet by now…”

 

“Oui… positively dripping…”  Lestat purrs, despite his own wrecked state.  He feels Louis’ hand wrap around his hardness, pulling at the shaft through the fabric, thumbing the slick slit.  “But - ah, mon ange parfait! - I’m about to get it wetter, about to - ah!”

 

Arun gives a low groan and lets his orgasm wash over him to the sound of Lestat loudly making a mess of his g-string…

 

He tries to make plans for the four of them to get together for dinner upon Daniel’s return, but, realizing the two other men currently have one brain cell left between them, and aren’t going to talk sense, gives up.  Tells Louis he will text him later, says goodnight, and ends the call.  The club owner is currently far too busy peeling off Lestat’s ruined thong with a self-satisfied smirk.  “There; now we’re even.  Serves you right for how you made me embarrass myself with that damned lap dance.”

 

Blue eyes glow with angelic innocence.  “I do not know of what you speak, mon cher… but, thank you.”  The blond sinks to the floor in fucked-out satisfaction.  “Ah… how magnificent that was, Louis.  I love you.”

 

“Love you, too, baby boy.”  A tender, almost chaste kiss.  “See?  Even on Armand, you made a great impression, and he can be difficult to please.  Everyone in my life is gonna love you, guaranteed.”

Notes:

Chapter title is from the song "Telephone Man" by Meri Wilson. It is VERY silly and, by the standards of its time, VERY suggestive.

Up next: plot resumes.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 10: To Face Unafraid, the Plans that We Made

Summary:

Slices of Life

Notes:

Fluff incoming!

“Well, here we are…” Louis stretches his back wearily, but his face glows with a certain satisfaction.  After days of concerted work on both their parts - mostly harmonious, albeit punctuated by their first forays into couples’ spats, followed by far more satisfying first forays into make-up sex - he can officially consider himself moved into Lestat’s - no, now, their - townhouse.  By some unspoken agreement, they’ve both left this room for last: second story, not the smallest in the house, but cozy, with honey-colored floors, a hidden nook, and an especially beautiful window with a view.  ‘So, mon cheri,” Lestat cautiously broaches the subject, should we do something with it now, or…”

 

“No,” Louis shakes his head, taking in the pattern on the old-fashioned wallpaper: buttery, whimsical, just waiting for a storybook frieze and blond-wood, child-sized furniture.  “No, let it stay for now… until we need it.”  He grins up at his man.

 

Lestat grins back, chin on Louis’ shoulder.  “Until the baby needs it, you mean?”  He sighs with that softness which melts his partner’s carefully kept heart each time.  “Our baby…”

 

*****

 

Among its other charms, the townhouse boasts a lovely, enclosed courtyard.  Perfect, in fact, for The Azalea’s staff-and-families’ Labor Day Barbecue, Louis’ beloved tradition now upgraded with a nicer location and a gorgeous blond co-host.  The guests meander or lounge around, enjoying the ;ate-summer sunshine and the food.  Drinks flow, as does conversation.

 

“No, not my real name…  I chose ‘Jonah’ after a guy I had sort of a crush on back in high school…  Think he and Louis used to fool around back then, actually…”

 

“Really?  Do tell…”

 

*

 

“Fareed, meet my cousin Seth - the one I told you about.  I think you’ll hit it off.”

 

“Oh… wow!  Umm, I mean, enchanted, Seth, er, pleased to meet you…”

 

*

 

“Katie, how you’ve grown!  Your Papa tells me you’re quite the aspiring pianist?”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Nicki, but I’m only a beginner.  I still can’t figure out “Clair da Lune.”

 

“Oh, a beautiful and challenging piece!  I play it on the violin, but it took a long time to master.  Don’t give up!”

 

*

 

“Well, I did love the idea of my Armand as a June bridegroom,” Daniel surveys his husband with a sparkle of fondness in his eyes, “but, we also didn’t want to wait, so…”

 

“Now, now, Beloved,” the younger man cuts in, “I care little for such things, and, anyhow, the season only matters if the couple has their hearts set on an outdoor wedding - and I had no intention of putting our big day at the mercy of the weather.”

 

Lestat, who has gone above and beyond his host’s duties in entertaining the Molloys’ seemingly endless nuptial reminiscences, nods with a charming attentiveness.  “Oh, I quite agree: much safer to go with indoors, ceremony and reception, so that you and your guests can be comfortable no matter the season.  And what are your thoughts, Louis?”  He wraps an affectionate arm around the latter’s waist, pulling him into the conversation.  Do you object to, say, a midwinter wedding?”

 

Louis, quickly scanning the party to ensure no one lacks food, drinks, or anything else, answers somewhat casually.  “No, Les…  In fact, I like the idea of going off-season: better prices, more availability, folks less likely to be away traveling.”

 

Right answer, apparently, because Lestat gives him a smile, although his fingers fiddle with his partner’s apron, as if nervous.  Still, when he speaks, he first seems to address the other couple.  “Well, I get not wanting to wait - especially with your lovely children in the picture.  They’re such a blessing, non?”  He turns to Louis.  “I definitely want to start a family by age thirty; how about you, Louis?”

 

“Makes sense,” the latter nods while adjusting the cover on a dish to stop flies from making themselves at home.  “Old enough to have a clue, still young enough to keep up with a toddler.”

 

“Exactement!” the blond concurs a bit too vigorously.  “But, well, I’d also wish for us to have a few years’ honeymoon so we can spend time, just the two of us in love, before becoming parents.”

 

“Mm-hmm, baby boy,” Louis presses an affectionate kiss to an oddly flushed cheek.  “Gotta get our freak on before the baby puts the brakes on 24/7 debauchery on every surface in the house.”

 

“OK.  OK.”  Lestat nods with an unusual sort of exhale.  “So, mon amour, you would not, theoretically speaking, be opposed to us getting married, say, this winter?”

 

“Nope.  Works for me, honeychild.”  Louis shrugs casually as he rises to wipe up a red wine spill before it reaches the lovely centerpiece Les had lovingly created during his inexplicable pre-party decorating kick.  Thus, it takes him a moment to notice it: a certain shift in the air, a sudden silencing of the partygoers’ voices.  In fact, it doesn’t fully sink in till he turns around to see Lestat, adoring and anxious, down on one knee in the courtyard, and, in his hands, catching the sunlight, throwing silver-snowflake sparkles…

 

“So, Louis… will you?..” a shy, almost reverent whisper.

 

He doesn’t get to finish.  Louis throws himself into his arms, nearly knocks him over.  Nearly smothers him with kisses.

 

“Umm… so, does that mean ‘yes,’ then?” the dancer finally manages when his partner takes a tiny pause to breathe.

 

“What?  Of course that means ‘yes’ - of course, of course, of course, of course!  I can’t wait!”  Louis’ hands tremble so much they can scarcely get the ring onto his finger.  “Oh, my God: Les, that’s the biggest diamond I have ever seen!  Oh, honey, this is… the happiest… happiest moment of my life…”  And, among the cheers and whistles of the gathered crowd, the engaged couple tumbles into an embrace, laughing and bursting into tears on one another’s shoulders.

Notes:

... and they'll be walking (down the aisle) in a Winter Wonderland. Hence the plundering of a classic Christmas carol for the chapter title.

We are almost at the end of this tale. Congratulations to the new fiances, and thank you to any readers who have stuck with this.

Chapter 11: Five Hundred, Twenty-Five Thousand Journeys to Plan

Summary:

Louis and Lestat's big day approaches.

Notes:

Warning: Tooth-Rotting Fluff Ahead

“Les, honey-love?” Louis murmurs into his fiance’s shoulder.

 

“Oui, mon coeur?” a drowsy murmur back: they’re already settling down to sleep, after…

 

“We should pick our wedding colors…  Armand won’t shut up about it.”

 

“D’accord…” Lestat hums, tired but reasonably agreeable.  “Which is your favourite?”

 

Louis grins, picturing the eyes he just saw in ecstasy beneath him.  “Blue.  Summer-sky blue.  Yours?”

 

“Emerald green: to match your eyes, Beautiful One.”

 

Louis’ cheeks warm a little.  “Aww.  We need one more…  How ‘bout white: wintry and wedding-y all at one?”

 

“Beautiful.”  Les yawns.

 

“Well…  That takes care of that,” Louis, having caught his intended’s yawn, just manages to get out, “good night, sweet boy.  Love ya.”

 

Tired, and with so much work to do tomorrow, Louis gratefully snuggles in on Lestat’s chest, already drifting off as he hears, “Je t’aime aussi.  Bonne nuit, amour.”

 

******

 

“Louis, my love,” Lestat looks up from his laptop, beckoning his other half to come to him.  “Just got an email confirming Gabrielle will come to visit us on these dates,” he taps the screen, showing an itinerary for roughly a month’s stay in New Orleans.

 

“That’s great, honey,” Louis says neutrally, eyes returning to the tricky process of adorning his ham with pineapple rings and maraschino cherries.  (At work, Lestat got ribbed mercilessly when he confessed his distaste for Thanksgiving turkey, but Louis has no problem bucking tradition if it means his baby gets to eat what he likes and never, ever experiences a bad holiday again.)  He’s “met” his future mother-in-law only by phone and video call.  The nomadic, gruff, ruggedly handsome paleontologist does not, in his opinion, deserve any awards for best performance in the role of mother; though, admittedly, merely by virtue of acknowledging and accepting her out-and-proud son, she does surpass the incredibly low bar not cleared by Louis’ own.  Thus, he likes Gabrielle well enough while privately surmising she won’t constitute a frequent presence in their lives.

 

Still, the look on Lestat’s face - soft and excited all at once - tells him all he needs to know.  So, when his fiance consults the calendar on his phone, “Now, if we have the wedding then, maman can come…  How about…” a long finger taps a Saturday in the middle of Gabrielle’s stay in New Orleans, “You can get to know each other in person first, and she doesn’t need to take off right after.” Louis quickly concurs and seals it with a kiss.  He texts everyone who needs to know that the date is set, and, satisfied, focuses on ensuring all the cloves studding his ham get properly spaced.

 

The rest of the planning proceeds in much the same manner.  The grooms-to-be, having discovered they’re way more enthused about getting married than managing every aspect of how to do so, approach each decision in the most practical, low-drama, and, arguably, laziest, way possible.  As soon as Lestat professes his indifference to location (“Cheri, on that momentous day, my eyes will see nothing but you, so… a French chateau or an empty church, it makes no difference to me.”), Louis ventures online to find the most all-inclusive (neither of them particularly want to shop separately for caterers, cake artists, planners, honeymoon suites…) venue with an appealing menu and their date available.  From then on, most pieces just fall into place.

 

The blond does, however, reach a whole new level of excitement as he scours mood boards and magazines of wedding attire.  Louis bows to the inevitable and lets him take the reins of that particular runaway horse, cheerfully resigned to getting dressed up like his future husband’s paper doll.  Lestat goes to town in his own bespoke fashion fairytale.  Tailors; dinner jackets; boutonnieres and bowties; manicures and make-up; cufflinks; shoes…  Lestat even special orders, soft and full of lace and made in their wedding colours, matching lingerie sets for the grooms’ eyes alone.  Standing there with his arms out for some more measurements and his ears full of Les’ happy twittering, Louis decides then and there to start praying for a daughter because his man… yeah, he’ll make the world’s best girl dad.

 

*******

There is, however, one thing they can both get excited for: their bachelor party.  Nobody wants to go the traditional strip club route (that would just feel like being at work), so Armand and Daniel (who had, 5 minutes after Lestat’s proposal, appointed themselves best men without the bother of being asked), have instead promised to put together a nice, intimate celebration.  Just for the four of them.  And scheduled it for 48 hours prior to the big day, to ensure that “everyone has properly recovered - we wouldn’t want to spoil the ceremony or the start of your honeymoon, would we?”  All of which has Louis and Lestat crossing the threshold of their friends’ home with their bellies pleasantly aflutter with something far better than nerves.

Notes:

Up next: So, what do the Molloys have planned? Let's find out! Other than that, not much plot forecast.

We're in the final act of this tale; probably no more than 3 chapters max.

Thank you if you're still here!

Chapter 12: Let's Eat at Home

Summary:

The Bachelors' Party... of Four

Notes:

OK, this is pure smut. Since there are a couple of kinks (safe, sane and consensual) involved, I put the heads-up regarding what they are in the end notes, to give folks the choice to find out if something here is not their cup of tea, or to be surprised. Since this chapter contains exactly zero plot, skipping it will not affect the story.

Also, I somehow forgot to mention that the title of the last chapter is from the song "Seasons of Love", from the musical "Rent." Oops. I am a goof.

The almost-husbands are just the right amount of tipsy: a perfect combo of cocktails mixed by Daniel (who used to overindulge a bit before falling under his husband’s special brand of loving tyranny) and cut off in time by Armand (who never indulges… in alcohol).  It makes Louis feel loose, adventurous.  The married couple pulls the engaged one into their guest bedroom, which doubles as tonight’s playspace.  

 

“Rules?” Armand demands imperiously, momentarily serious.

 

“Only Louis and I kiss each other on the mouth,” Lestat iterates.  “Everything else is on the menu.”

 

“Not quite,” the younger Mr. Molloy corrects with a devilish smirk.  “It’s bad luck for the two grooms to fuck each other so close to the wedding.”

 

“Not sure that’s quite the superstition, babe,” his spouse snorts, “but, yeah, let’s go with it.  Also…” he waves an admonitory finger at his younger playmates, “let’s keep it simple: anyone gets uncomfortable, just say ‘interview’ and we all stop, no questions asked.”  Everyone nods their agreement.

 

Louis pouts, suddenly in the mood to be difficult.  “Well, somebody better fuck me!”  He puts hands on petulant hips.  “And I wanna see Les get railed, too.”

 

Armand raises his eyes in his trademark look of put-upon sainthood.  “Heaven help us with this marriage of two brats and no tamers.”  He sighs.  “Don’t worry, lovelies: all of us get just what we need tonight.  Including my Daniel,” he pulls the older man into a dirty kiss. “Tonight, I wish to give you a special gift.  Tonight,” Arun’s nimble fingers open his former employer’s shirt and push him slightly forward, “Louis is for you.”

 

The club owner sheds the rest of the garment.  Lets his gaze rove over Daniel’s body: still fit and toned, with a light touch of chest hair, just hinting silver.  Licks his lips.  “And what do I call you during our scene?”  He teases.  “Mr. Molloy?  Silver Fox?  DILF?”

 

Daniel takes hold of the younger man’s chin with a fond but firm, “Daddy.”

 

Louis tries to hide how much that makes his breath hitch.  Fails.  Daniel spares him a brief, indulgent glance.  Positions their bodies to give them the best view of the settee now occupied by the other two men.  “OK, Lou.  I know how much you want to see what Boss has in mind for Frenchie.”  Then, in a firmer tone, “Strip.”

 

Louis does, keenly aware of all eyes on him, especially Lestat’s, now watching from Armand’s lap.  Daniel also finishes disrobing, giving Louis the opportunity to contemplate his still-firm torso and (in contrast to Lestat’s Greek-statue smoothness), the neat triangle of salt-and-pepper curls just above his already-hardening, thick cock.  The younger man performatively sinks to his knees and opens his mouth.  An eyebrow quirks upwards in amusement.  The older Molloy drags his member lightly in and out over the damp, pink tongue, no more than half a dozen times before withdrawing.

 

“Come on,” the tone almost avuncular as he procures lube from the nearest shelf and coats his fingers, “Ass up for Daddy.”

 

Louis whines a little at the emptiness of his mouth.  Daniel shoots him a look which clearly reads “unimpressed.”  “Uh-uh, sweet cheeks.”  He admonishes.  “Don’t be naughty.  Ass-up and face-down on the nice, soft rug.  Let’s prep you, and then you can watch Blondie taking it while I fuck you.”

 

Faced with such a persuasive argument, Louis obeys.  Admittedly, the deep-pile rug beneath him feels luxurious.  “Daddy” Molloy’s strong, slightly rough fingers also prove quite skilled, getting him ready in a way - efficient, just a touch mean - that has Louis breathing hard in no time.  A moment’s emptiness again.  Then - slowly, slowly - Daniel enters, taking his time, letting his lover adjust to the stretch as they enjoy the show.

 

By now, Armand and Lestat are both nude, their skin tones in lovely contrast as their bodies rub against each other.  Clever fingers slide exploringly below the blond’s waist into his tight cleft.  Armand smirks.  “Ah, so you did get my text and can follow instructions…  Who knew?  Do you feel ready?”

 

“Yes,” Lestat affirms, feline and sensual.  Louis’ breath hitches in surprised, slightly indignant arousal as he watches a butt plug, sizable and slick with lubricant, get pulled from his fiance’s ass.  How long has the little minx had it in?  How has he kept it secret?  Well, those questions will all have to wait because…

 

“Such a slut…” Armand remonstrates, a bit fondly.  “So eager to take it, aren’t we?”  He uses a pump bottle to apply more lube to his own hardness.  “Well, go on.”   That tone - perfectly directorial.  “Help me get ready, and I’ll give you just what you want.”

 

Lestat eagerly spreads the shiny substance, lovingly coating Armand’s shaft.  Louis groans; tries to relieve his pent-up arousal by pushing backwards on Daniel’s frustratingly still cock, but the other man holds his hips, won’t let him.  “Wait till my man’s inside yours,” the voice from behind instructs.  As if in answer, the blond dancer straddles his play partner reverse-cowboy-style, allowing him to line up…  And (the show-off!) exhales meditatively, and sinks down in one smooth motion.

 

Louis bucks, seeking friction.  Denied again.  Experienced hands hold him in place.  “Good boys ask for what they want.”  Daniel matter-of-factly tells him.  “Say it.”

 

Green eyes cast a sultry look over a shoulder.  “Fuck me, please…  Daddy.”

 

With a satisfied grunt, Daniel pushes forward.  Begins to fuck into Louis with no particular gentleness - but Louis doesn’t want that right now.  He urges his body to open up to the sharp thrusts coming ever harder, faster, nailing the special spot inside with every stroke.  It feels so good, but even better - the older man has now positioned them less than a foot away from the other pair, giving Louis an up-close-and-personal view of Lestat getting bounced on Armand’s lap.  And his beloved’s huge, fully erect dick is practically in Louis’ face…

 

Armand’s every motion breathes perfect, evil-coven-leader control.  “That’s it, take what you’re given,” he murmurs into the Frenchman’s ear.  “Louis indulges you too much…  That’s why you act so spoiled…”  The cruel words make an exquisite contrast to the tender kisses he plants on the long, pale throat.  “Good for you: finding somebody who loves you, worships you…” the fingers, so gentle on that neck, the light touch belying the threat.  “But, once in a while,” a brutal thrust, judging by Lestat’s gasp, “don’t you need what I have to offer: someone to put you in your place?”

 

The dancer moans and grinds.  Taking it as encouragement, Armand lets his gentle hand travel downwards: ghosting over an erect pink nipple, rippling over toned abs…  It passes right over the tip of Lestat’s erection…  Moves off.  Then, without warning - light yet unmistakable - a slap lands on the outside of Lestat’s asscheek.

 

The blond bites his lip; sucks in his breath with a hiss.  Louis involuntarily moans, “Ohhh…  Ffuuuuck…” tightening around Danny.  He feels nearly breathless with how much he suddenly wants to see this, how much he imagines, if they do this again, getting the same treatment from any of the three men with him.  Meanwhile, Armand’s tone takes on a sharp, teasing edge.

 

“You like this, don’t you, Brat?” he prompts.  “Need just a little more?”

 

“Oui…” a nod; a sensual whisper.  Armand continues spanking the same spot, not at all hard, but quite metronomic, in perfect sync with the rhythm of their fucking.  Letting the idea of it, the quietly dirty sound of palm meeting skin do the work.  Lestat’s moans grow louder; turn to little cries of pleasure.  When, after ten strokes, slaps turn to soothing, lovingly rubbing the skin, telling the blond how good he was, how sweet he feels…  Louis can hardly take it anymore.  He’s so aroused he aches; he needs just  a little push to fall over the edge.

 

“Close…  Touch me, please…” he throws an appealing look over his shoulder.

 

Daniel will have none of it.  “Nope.  You’ll come untouched, on Daddy’s dick.”

 

“Can’t…” Louis whines, hanging his head and thrusting his hips back.

 

A certain glint flashes in the elder Molloy’s eyes.  He locks gazes with his husband, almost as if communicating telepathically.   “Babe?”  He grins.  “Mirror.”

 

“Yes…  Beloved…”  Armand breathes out, the first sign of his control slipping.  Then, he whispers something into his playmate’s ear.  Lowers them lightly, palms first, onto the rug.  Positions them until they form a perfect, Lestat-on-all-fours reflection of Louis and Daniel.  And the fiances’ noses practically brush each other.  “Now,” the devilish director of the scene urges, “you may kiss the groom.”

 

Lestat surges forward, propelled even more by the thrust deep inside him.  Consumes Louis’ lips, tender and hungry.  His tongue scarcely slides in when Louis comes undone completely, shaking in full-body orgasm.  His thighs shake so much he doesn’t instantly register that Daniel’s rhythm’s gone erratic…  Then, feels wet heat inside him, the sensation - almost overstimulating as he rides out the aftershocks - as Daniel roughly pulls out to finish all over his ass.  At the sight, Armand’s cry - loud and rapturous - commingles with Lestat’s low, drawn-out one…  Four near-simultaneous ecstasies; then, four bodies collapse onto the carpet in a heap.

 

It takes a while for Louis and Lestat to stop their gentle kissing long enough to do anything else.  Such as clean up.  Blushing crimson, the club owner assures the Molloys that, yes, of course, he’ll, umm, pay to get their rug cleaned while Lestat, with annoyingly hearty handshakes, congratulates them on finding such an effective tool for banishing pre-nuptial stress.  Daniel, sprawled out on the settee with a rather daffy expression on his face, does not exactly live up to his brilliant-writer reputation since all he manages is a thumbs-up and a mumbled, “We should do this again sometime…”  Armand, on the other hand, looks infuriatingly put-together, as if moments away from starring in some artsy photoshoot.  “Oh, by the way,” he informs Louis, “I organized everyone; made a spreadsheet…  And I am happy to report that the Wedding Flower Situation is resolved to everybody’s satisfaction.”

Notes:

Smut heads-up:
- the couples swap partners
- hints of D/s dynamics for both sets of play partners, with Daniel and Armand both taking dom roles (though it's very light)
- light Daddy kink between Daniel and Louis
- tiny hints of brat taming and brief, very mild spanking by Armand toward Lestat

Other notes:
Chapter title taken from the song "Eat at Home" by Paul and Linda McCartney, featured on the fantastic album "Ram."
This clearly wasn't a spontaneous hook-up, so we can presume unprotected sex is OK because everyone has tested, discussed, and trusts each other with their lives. Please play safe at all times!

Up next: Let's get married!

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 13: Let's Celebrate

Summary:

Wedding humour, fluff, a sprinkling of... other stuff...

Notes:

Yes, there is a show character whom I have split into 2 people for the purposes of this story. They're probably cousins of one kind or another. Let's just go with it.

Admittedly, the Wedding Flower Situation was something of a ruse.  Or, more precisely, a “clever”, if truth-based, semi-deception Louis orchestrated to cheer up Armand.  The (voluntarily and aggressively) self-appointed wedding planner had spent the happy couple’s entire engagement simply itching to solve a particularly tricky problem or manage a crisis, which stubbornly refused to materialize.  So, feeling sorry for the best man’s disappointment, Louis finally manufactured one.

 

“Hey, sorry to spring it on you so last-minute,” he’d pinched the bridge of his nose, a crease between his eyebrows for maximum effect, “but, suddenly, Les has his heart set on ‘flowers, heaps of flowers everywhere’...  And, well, we haven’t planned for it.  I mean, obviously, we’d want them in our colors, but, you know, with the whole look, eclectic works better than all matchy-matchy - but also not clashing, if you get my drift…”  Louis rambled, admittedly improvising most of these challenges as he went, ending on, “Anyhow, I don’t wanna be a nuisance, but, I  figure if anyone can pull it off, it’s you…”  He could practically hear the gears spin into action beneath those raven curls as Armand, in his disconcertingly matter-of-fact way, stated, “I see.  Is there anything else that you require?”

 

Arun immediately went into action, meticulous research followed by the creation of an honest-to-goodness spreadsheet swiftly and mercilessly distributed to every person voluntold they’d be assisting; the document contained each person’s designated flower quota, color, purchasing location (for ease of access and budget, nearly every local supermarket was targeted)...  And all that in addition to a stern directive to drop off the blooms on time, fully ready for display, and in CLEAR VESSELS ONLY.  No one, absolutely no one, had dared to disobey.  And, walking into the venue on the day of the wedding, the grooms can only breathe out a synchronized…  “Wow…”

 

The whole place evokes a garden.  Flowers are, indeed, everywhere: delineating an improvised aisle, cozy in every nook, blooming from tables…  They form a magical open circle around the spot where vows will be exchanged, their presence elevating the somewhat nondescript white wedding arch to something out of a fairytale.  Clean and snowy traditional roses and flamboyant chrysanthemums; every sort of lush, verdant greenery; cool blue sweet delphiniums and exotic irises; all three shades playing out naturally across the blossoms of cloud-like hydrangeas and artificially in the dyed petals of daisies and carnations.  In their haste to placate Maitre Armand, the guests had ransacked their homes for vessels, from rustic jars through simple glass vases left over from fancy floral arrangements all the way to ornate family crystal…  And now, all that clear glass and water reflects and magnifies the glow of everything from LED candles to strings of fairy lights, fills the room with sparkle and shine.  Lestat, in on the ruse, had promised to “fake an orgasm for our dear gremlin if needed,” but, his sincere, wide-eyed, almost childlike wonder requires no embellishment.

 

A beaming Louis walks down the aisle on the arm of a regal lady wearing a sequined gown of midnight blue and a smile as wide as the Moon.  Mama Bricks (no other name, thank you), the Azalea’s stalwart manager, had taken the lonely still-teenager under her wing the moment he’d walked through the door.  So, naturally, when she learned (quietly, from Lestat) that no one from Louis’ family of origin would attend the wedding, she stepped up.  As she hugs him tight to her bosom and, with a pinch on his cheek, whispers, “I’m so proud of you, son…”, Mr. Du Lac feels no urge to look anywhere else for a mother’s love.

 

Then, his eyes fix expectantly on the aisle, seeking his Companion Heart.  And, here he comes - radiant, practically luminous - escorted by his mother, who looks sharp in a hunter-green 3-piece suit.  Having now spent time with the elusive Gabrielle de Lioncourt, Louis can unequivocally state that while Lestat certainly has her to thank for his stunning good looks and steely fortitude, the origin of his boundless love, warmth and loyalty remain a mystery wrapped up in an enigma.  The Snow Queen (as he’s privately dubbed her) had simply turned up, ahead of schedule and in the wee hours of the night, accompanied by someone even Lestat had previously not known existed: a pale, blonde fellow paleontologist introduced laconically as “Sevraine, my married partner,” with no further elaboration.  Goodness (Louis allows himself a mental eyeroll), why do some folks simply not understand how crucial healthy communication is?..  Then, his gaze turns from Gabrielle to her son, and, by the light of his radiant happiness, all the world’s troubles vanish.  The grooms clasp hands like children on a playground, blinking rapidly but grinning as the officiant’s practiced voice begins, “Dearly Beloved…”

 

The reception’s in full swing, most of the guests hitting the dance floor, caught up in the joyful mood radiating outwards from the newlyweds.  Lestat can’t quit smiling.  Hasn’t stopped, all the way through the exchange of simple vows (a love like theirs does not require long speeches to prove its sincerity) and ornate wedding bands, all the toasts and well-wishes… except, of course, for frequent and extremely necessary breaks for kissing.  It is after one such break that his husband (his husband!) twirls him lightly away from the other dancing couples to whisper in his ear, “Y’know, baby…  We’ve got the honeymoon suite upstairs, waiting for us: candles, rose petals on the bed…”

 

“That’s right, mon cher,” the blond replies, curious where this is going.

 

Louis’ smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.  “Well, later tonight, I want to take you there…  Lay you out on that bed among those petals in your wedding lace…  Adore you just the way you deserve…”

 

Oh, Lestat likes the sound of that.  “Ah, oui?” his eyebrow quirks.

 

“Uh-huh.”  Louis pulls him closer.  “But first - right now, in fact - I’m gonna need you to take me into that bathroom,” he nods ever-so-slightly sideways, “get my pants down and fuck me senseless up against the wall.”  And, well, Lestat de Lioncourt does not intend to start off married life by not listening to his husband’s wishes.

 

They slip away discreetly.  Playing the role clearly requested of him, Lestat lightly manhandles his spouse to face the wall, taking care only to pick a spot which offers both of them a clear view of a mirror.  One strong pull… dress trousers down round Louis’ ankles.  Another… the dainty lace just covering his ass, down to his thighs.  Ah, the naughty minx, perfectly prepped and plugged.  The sight alone has the Frenchman hard and ready, frantically unzipping.  Though, thanks to Lestat’s choice of dress shoes with a heel, Louis has to get up on tiptoe, they make it work.  Soon, with his fist round Louis’ cock and his own cock buried deep in Louis’ ass, Lestat is in his own, personal heaven…  And that’s when Daniel walks in.

 

Most folks would, with varying degrees of embarrassment, turn tail and run.  Alas, Mr. Molloy is not most folks.  After getting in a couple of lewd comments and threatening to text a picture to Armand, he seizes the opportunity to ask the happy couple a few thoughtful questions about married life.  Impressively, even while fending him off (“This is not… an interview, Daniel…  GO AWAY!”), Lestat never falters in the martial rhythm of his hips or the expert strokes of his wrist.  Once the chatty author finally gets the message and departs, laughing his head off, the grooms redouble their efforts toward a mutually satisfactory conclusion and rejoin the party just in time to cut the cake. 

Dessert; more dancing.  Smiles and tears and more precious moments caught on camera.  They tumble into their honeymoon suite tipsy and slightly drowsy; but Louis keeps his promise.  He treats Lestat with an adoring tenderness on one has ever shown him.  Whispers words of love, kisses with sweetness rather than demanding.  Keeps Lestat’s lacy lingerie on as he fingers his young husband into orgasm.  Slides sweetly inside his pliant, nearly swooning, other half afterwards to make love slowly, gently to a sleepy climax as synchronized as their two heartbeats.  

 

They sleep away most of the next day, not venturing from their cocoon until midwinter’s early sunset has begun to paint the sky.  They venture out to find a 24-hour diner and enjoy pancakes for dinner.  Both Louis and Lestat are often restless souls; both have something which drives them from within: toward success, experience, excitement…  But not tonight.  Tonight, hands joined across a shiny little table, they want nothing more: just being with each other is Happily Ever After enough.

Notes:

The chapter title technically appears in the song "Seasons of Love", which I've used before - but, of course, it's just pretty generic.

Just an epilogue left now...

Many thanks to thecat_13145 for inspiring me to write a wedding-related "crisis" for Armand to manage.

Thank you all for reading and supporting me.

Chapter 14: Who Could Ask for More?

Summary:

A few slices of married life; an epilogue of sorts...

Notes:

Disclaimer: I have literally zero medical knowledge and apologize for any glaring errors.

Forecast: fluffy with light smut

Their honeymoon takes an unexpected turn.  While driving through the woods, Louis succumbs to the temptation to photograph a particularly scenic spot.  He must have gotten careless and somehow failed to shut the door…  The honeymooners come back to the vehicle only to find an underweight stray dog has climbed into the passenger seat and is happily eating their trail mix.  Louis puts up a token fight, but, faced with two pairs of puppy-dog eyes…  They keep him.

 

Mojo grows.  Then grows some more.  Lestat dotes on him, teaching him competition-worthy tricks and dressing him in a different fabulous bandanna for each day of the month, plus holidays.  Louis grouses while lint-rolling dog hair off his clothes and stands in line at that one bakery which sells those special organic treats.  Mojo stubbornly climbs into bed with his daddies every night, only returning (with a demonstrative, offended huff) to his own when the humans’ wrestling proves too rambunctious.

 

*****

 

Gabrielle and Sevraine drop in out of the blue to visit.  Lestat is overjoyed, even when his mother casually regales the whole family with an anecdote from his adolescence, one so hair-raising it sends his husband upstairs to scream into a pillow, then back down to frantically squeeze Lestat extra-tight, a process he repeats whenever humanly possible for the next 48 hours.  Louis smiles graciously; urges their guests to enjoy his library (about the only common bond he’s found with his mothers-in-law); knocks himself out in the kitchen.  Gabrielle takes one look at his labour-intensive, colorful and healthy salad and homemade Jell-O mould with its perfectly layered fruit (he’s gone on a bit of a retro-recipe kick lately, so sue him) and launches into passive-aggressive muttering - under her breath yet pointedly audible - about not wanting to eat anything “if it didn’t have parents.”  Which is how Louis finds himself at the butcher’s, spending a jaw-dropping amount on bone-in ribeyes, and the liquor store getting pressured into an overpriced French red to lubricate the meal.

 

He makes a side of flambeed green beans in a subtle act of spite, and serves a feast which earns him a string of uncomfortably pornographic noises from Lestat, a warmly understated toast of gratitude to the chef from the enigmatic Sevraine, and a few noncommittal grunts from Gabrielle (as well as a notably clear plate).  The next day, the women nonchalantly announce their imminent departure.  Louis manages to corner Gabrielle while she packs her bags.  “Tell him.” he demands, quietly but firmly.  “Before you go, tell your son you love him.”

 

“Pardon?” the beautiful blue eyes fix him with a cool curiosity.

 

Louis shifts a bit from foot to foot, but does not back down.  “Look, I am so, so sorry your ex-husband was an abusive piece of shit who made your life Hell in ways I admit I can’t even imagine… but none of that was Lestat’s fault… and Les…” he tries to soften his voice, get through the wall of ice somehow, “Les is your child, and he adores you, and he needs to hear…”  For the first time, he touches his mother-in-law’s cool hand.  “I won’t ask you to change who you are, or even to mean it… just, please, let him believe you do.”

 

They stare at each other in silence for nearly a minute.  Finally, Gabrielle shrugs.  “My son has always been… sensitive.  Needy.  Always wanted someone capable of loving with the same intensity he does.”  Her voice betrays no overt emotion.  “I am not good at that, never was.”  Louis bites back a choice remark and wills his features into neutrality.  His husband’s mother resumes speaking.  “It seems, however, that you are.  He has you now, and,” she somewhat stiffly pats his shoulder, “I am glad.”  

 

Louis suddenly gets a stubborn bit of dust in his eye.  He’s definitely not weirdly moved or anything.  On her way out the door, Lestat’s mother whispers something to him.  Whatever it is, it leaves the blond rapidly blinking, heartbreakingly happy.  His other half wraps him in a hug; no need for words.

 

*******

 

“He felt powerful hands spin him around as if he were a doll.  The nails scratching across his bared breast felt… wrong: too sharp, too dangerous for a man.  But then, he’s not a man, is he? - The thought came unbidden, even through the haze of lust - He’s… something else…”

 

Louis’ practiced voice declaims clearly, professionally in the warm cocoon of their bedroom.  Reading aloud to his husband has lately become something of a ritual for them, and this passage is a favourite, especially when…

 

“But then an arm stronger than an iron bar grips his waist.  His feet leave the ground, and they are floating…  Helpless and pliant in the hold of his demonic lover, the young man writhes and moans…  His heart about to burst from terror, his loins already on the verge of spilling his seed in ecstasy…”  The reader’s voice hitches, just for a moment, before recovering.  “On his exposed neck, ever so slight, two pinpricks from teeth - no, fangs - such as a predator should have, while an equally predatory hugeness nudges insistently at - ah! - the narrow cleft he has kept shy and secret until now…  Uh huh, right there…” Louis shifts his hips for greater comfort.  “A shameful plea falls from the young man’s lips.  ‘Fiend…  Ravish me…’ “

 

“Damn,” Louis can’t help rolling his eyes as he looks over his shoulder.  “I swear, Danny’s prose gets more purple with each book…”  He sighs, and gets himself a sharp smack on the ass for it.  Behind him, Lestat’s hips still.  Louis lets out a displeased, bratty whine.

 

“Nope,” Lestat corrects with an infuriatingly sexy smirk while his big hands stop his frustrated spouse from getting the friction he desires.  “You want me to fuck you through the mattress like you begged me to, keep reading…  This part’s my favourite.”  Louis gives an obedient little nod and, as soon as the increasingly passionate thrusts resume, tries his best to turn his attention back to the book stand they’ve bought for just such an occasion.

 

“The fangs pierce… the beautiful brothel keeper’s vulnerable throat…  causing him to cry out in painful… painful pleasure…”  He works very hard to keep his tone even, but…  “He starts to swoon, and then…  The golden-haired vampire’s… enormous… virile… manhood… plunges ruthlessly into…  Les, les, oh, honey… his virginal but willing… tightness…  Again and again and - oh, fuck, don’t stop, harder…”

 

A mouth, bringing not a maw of vampiric teeth, but the suction of loving lips, latches on to the sensitive skin of Louis’ neck.  He can barely manage the words, “The otherworldly creature… splits him open… in the throes of agony and ecstasy… He calls out God’s name like a martyr, moans… like a… like a whore -  Oh, honeychild, yeah, just like that, fuck, I…  I love you…”

 

The next day, Louis grumbles endlessly about the hickey and how much he’ll get made fun of for it.  Then wears a low-cut shirt to work.  Of course, Lestat walks around The Azalea looking criminally smug.

 

*********

 

Louis, in his new apron covered with pink flowers, smiles as he plates tonight’s dinner, a delectable stir fry with noodles, shrimp and curry.  How can he help smiling when the kitchen fills with a soft, melodic humming, which can only mean one thing: Lestat is here.  And he is not alone.  Both of his sculpted arms cradle a perfect little bundle each.  “Say bon soir to Daddy, girls,” he sing-songs before following up with a far more scorching, “Hello, Daddy,” of his own.

 

Louis softly kisses the vivid red fluff of his daughters’ budding curls, delights in the two pairs of almost preternaturally clever green eyes looking up at him.  He presses his lips, slowly but passionately, against their other father’s mouth, hoping it conveys a feeling so intense he sometimes struggles to put it into words.  Louis wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he fell in love with Lestat, all over again while watching his husband step up to, and embrace, parenthood.  When the adoption agency had first contacted them about a possible match, the case worker did their best to dampen the couple’s rejoicing, their urge to sign on the dotted line sight unseen.  Difficult case, they’d carefully emphasized.  Closed adoption.  Circumstances classified.  Twins, whom they’d rather not separate… but, two infants means more than twice the work.  Besides, both girls have medical issues which require attention, possibly surgery, and fairly soon…

 

In unison, the prospective parents had instantly said, “We don’t care.”   Even before they looked at the two tiny infants, at first glance identical, but…  

 

“Maharet suffers from infantile esotropia,” the professional voice had patiently explained, pointing out the baby’s stubbornly crossed eyes to Louis, who hardly heard, too awed by holding his daughter, while Lestat, equally besotted with baby Mekare, tuned out the definition of “ankyloglossia” and detailed explanations of the necessary procedure and follow-up therapy.  Fortunately, Arun, with his typical blunt efficiency, quickly pulled some strings to get “the two helpless infants - oh, and their children, too” an appointment with the highly experienced, brilliant Dr. Khayman, who helped the new fathers navigate these medical journeys.  Both girls did, indeed, end up needing surgical intervention and follow-up care.  Lestat readily put his beloved career on hold to care for them full-time and take on most of the responsibility so that Louis wouldn’t have to step away from the club he’d struggled so hard to bring into the world.  They had worries, frustrations and sleepless nights aplenty… and wouldn’t have traded their new life for anything in the world.

 

Tonight, it’s just family dinner… simple, and as quiet as a house with two near-toddlers can ever be.  And yet…  “I love you,” Louis grins at Mekare, his heart leaping at the way she’s finally begun to babble.  “I love you,” he turns to Maharet, so delighted to see her gaze focus on him.  “And,” he reaches out to entwine his husband’s fingers with his own, “I love you so much, baby boy…  Thank you for - everything.  Before you came along, I never knew it was possible to be so happy.”

 

“Je t’aime aussi, tellement,” Lestat smiles back.  “And you, my St. Louis - you make me so happy.  Our love; our family…  Who could ask for anything more?”

Notes:

Chapter title from The Beatles' "When I'm Sixty-Four."

ankyloglossia = tongue-tied
infantile esotropia = 1 condition which can cause crossed eyes

Louis and Lestat stayed just as in love, and just as adventurous in the bedroom. Lestat graced The Azalea's stage for many more years; lovingly mentored younger dancers, and retired on his own terms, having found a new passion. Maharet and Mekare grew up strong and confident. when, inevitably, some classmates decided to talk nasty about their fathers' line of work, they simply answered, "Who cares? Our dads love what they do; and, more importantly, they love us and each other." And they remained a happy, loving family.

As for anyone who read this, even in part... Thank you.

Notes:

Chapter 1 title is from "The House of the Rising Sun," a song most famously recorded by The Animals, but with origins/authorship which cannot be definitively ascertained, and may go back centuries. Many versions imply that the "house" mentioned therein is a brothel. That is not literally applicable here, nor will that song's darker aspects foreshadow the plot.

I am hoping for 10 chapters or fewer, but, well, it's me, so no promises.

If you gave this a chance, thank you! Please let me know if you are interested in seeing how things turn out!