Picture Perfect

(Gairid)

Their backs are to the door. They are together, on the love seat, Louis at one end with his arm around Lestat's shoulders. The Brat is comfortably sprawled across the seat with his head on Louis' shoulder. They're naked, bare shoulders, bare legs...snuggled together beneath a soft cashmere blanket, the color of ripe plums.

They are talking softly together, liquid, sibilant French. The pale fire of Lestat's blonde head offset by the raven gleam of Louis' hair. There's a movie playing on the VCR, one that they have watched together many times. Diane Kury’s Diabolo Menthe. The sound is low, the characters and the dialog are familiar, the modern French a background sound to their quiet Creole French from a past era.

Louis's fingers are stroking the skin of Lestat's shoulder, his cheek lying against the tousled golden mane. The only light is that afforded by a few scattered candles, the glow of the television, and what light filters in through the sheer curtains over the French doors.

Lestat occasionally twists himself about to receive kisses from his lover, the soft syllables of their words punctuated by the sweet, wet sound of their languid, protracted kissing, and little sighs and moans of contentment. When the blonde settles back to resume watching the film, his face is serene, tranquil. Louis isn't watching the film, he's watching Lestat watch the film, enchanted, as always, with his lovers' animated responsiveness. Even as they are quiet together, Lestat is in minute motion, shifting, moving a hand to cover Louis' hand on his shoulder, turning to be kissed. He's calm tonight, but still, there is that restless energy about him. Just another of the things Louis is fascinated with. He could watch Lestat forever, and never be bored.

He watches Lestat's mouth quirk at a comment from one of the actors in the film, and feels the Brat again shift his weight some little bit against him. Lestat's head turns a little and the blonde takes Louis' hand from beneath the blanket. He rubs the back of it against his cheek, brushing the knuckles lightly with his lips. Pressing his face into the curled palm and inhaling. He takes Louis' hand and moves it onto his chest, placing it over his heart, and goes still again for a few more minutes, his only movement is his forefinger tracing the veins of Louis' hand, over the pulse he can hear and feel. His mouth is open as he pants lightly, without being aware that he is even doing it. Scenting, scenting.

The film is winding down. Frederique and Anne are once again on the train to spend the summer with their father. The credits roll and Lestat sings along with the song that closes the film under his breath.

He sits up and reaches for the remote, but forgets about it when he looks at Louis' face as he reaches across him to the little table beside the loveseat. His hand goes to Louis' face, the VCR forgotten, and he turns himself so that he is lying in Louis' embrace, like a trusting child. He pulls Louis' head to his and kisses him. Sweet, longing kiss. The look he caught in Louis eyes had stolen his breath. He draws a breath from Louis, and gives another back to him. Suckles Louis’ tongue. His hands are restless in the coaldust hair, on the pale alabaster skin of Louis' chest. The blanket falls in a heap to the floor.

A sculptor's hands would itch for his chisels at this sight. Entwined limbs, perfect, taut musculature. A painter would be dreaming of the exact colors to mix to capture the pale gold of Lestat's hair, the exact tint of faint rose that blushes Louis' skin. Could such a tableau be reproduced? Such a moment be captured forever in marble, or on canvas? Perhaps not. But seeing this, one would feel the need to try. They look enchanting. The sounds they make together are music, the picture they make as they struggle for possession of one another...the picture is perfect.

Kisses becoming more demanding, Lestat is up from his place across Louis' lap, pulling his lover to his feet. They embrace, standing, bodies straining to one another. Lestat's mouth is voracious now, his hands insistent and possessive, pulling and squeezing Louis' willing flesh. One hand, again in Louis' black hair, tugging, pulling his lover's head back to expose his white throat. Gazing at him, his heart beating faster at the sight. He bends his head and licks delicately at the veins...the shelf of Louis' jaw. Pushes his mouth against Louis ear, his tongue searching and twisting, teeth nipping at the lobe.

"Let's go to bed, my darling, shall we? I want to lick you all over...I want to taste you." His whisper is seductive and insistent.

His mouth nurses at the tender skin at the back of Louis' neck.

When they enter the bedroom, Lestat closes the door, and leans back against it, gazing at Louis. Louis who is standing in the center of the room, pushing his hair back from his face. He shivers slightly, feeling Lestat's gaze sweep him, making his skin prickle with heat. Lestat's tongue, briefly flicking one razor fang. Louis catches that scent, that ambrosial scent. His skin, suddenly damp with bloodsweat.

"Don't move, Mon Cher. Be still." Lestat's voice is a caress. "Let me look at you." Caressing. His voice stroking Louis like velvet. Louis can feel his voice, feel it the way he has felt Lestat's hands upon him times beyond counting. Lestat moves from the door, close to his lover. "L'amour enchaine les couers, Mon Louis." Hushed voice, throaty. Stroking. The Brat is standing behind Louis, close enough so that his breath stirs the inky tangle of his lover's hair. Louis can feel the heat radiating from Lestat's skin, intense, feverish. His heart, thunderous in his ears, his muscles tight with the tension of remaining still.

"My baby..." Lestat croons, circling Louis. Around and around. "Mon couer...mon bebe. " Crooning, softly. "Gods...look at you, Louis. My perfect angel..." Stopping behind Louis once again. His hand sliding, a lightly around Louis' side, along his hip and across the flat belly. "My own." Silky whisper.

He moves the heavy, raven length of hair, and runs his tongue down the back of Louis' neck and across his shoulder. Lestat's other hand, resting on his lover's stomach, feeling the muscles there jumping and quivering. The voice at Louis' ear again, low and warm.

"Come Louis..." The Brat works his way around to facing him again. He takes Louis' hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing the palm, the inner wrist. Closing his eyes briefly, he presses his cheek into Louis' hand.

Drawing him across the room to the bed, gently pushing him backwards until he sits down...Lestat leans to kiss him, still pushing at Louis' chest. The dark haired vampire lays back and Lestat joins him. They move themselves backward across the rumpled bedclothes. Lipping and pulling at one another, Louis no longer motionless, his arms around Lestat, hugging him tightly.

They kiss this way for a long while, throttling back, both of them. Neither of them wishes to rush. It's early yet and they had gotten up from bed immediately upon awakening, Louis suggesting that they watch a movie. He had been in the mood to watch Lestat, and he knew that a film the Brat liked was a good way to keep him relatively still for a while.

Lestat is nuzzling Louis' collarbone, licking him. Louis' grip around him has relaxed a little as he abandons himself to Lestat's tongue. Avid tongue. Lestat appears to have meant it, Louis thinks, when he said he wanted to lick him all over. He's made a good start of it, beginning with his face, little kisses and the brushing of that rough, sinuous tongue. Another long, slow bout of kissing Louis' mouth, and then a through exploration of his jaw, and his neck.

Louis has his right hand in Lestat's thick mane, his other hand is clasped in Lestat's. The blonde's free hand is worrying at Louis' nipple, pinching and pulling at it in a way that Lestat knows Louis loves, arousingly painful. He's nipping Louis's skin now, as he licks. Adding to the slowly building tension. He avoided nipping at Louis' neck. Not time yet for the long drink he wanted from his lover, although he craved the taste of him. No blood drawn yet. The question was when? And *where*. Feathery kisses, and that sensuous, erotic lapping that Lestat is doing. And then, the spice of the hard little bites ...waiting for the slash of those long fangs of 'Stat's. Louis realizes that he is purring loudly at Lestat's insistent attentions.

Ah. Lestat has reached that nipple, sore already from being plucked and tweaked. His lips closing around the erect little nub, and then it's taken between the sharp teeth. Pulled and sucked into the heat of Lestat's mouth. Releasing it. Lapping hungrily at the sheeted muscles beneath his skin. Lestat pulls at Louis' arm, their hands still clasped. Stretches the arm upward, and then, the stab of his fangs, there in the taut muscle at the hollow of Louis arm. No larger veins broached there, just a slow run of blood from the torn vessels within the bunched muscle. A taste to tease, no more than that. At the sudden delicious pain of entry into his flesh, Louis gasps in a breath, and releases it, moaning.

Closing his eyes, he is swept with sensation. Lestat's hand tightens over his, and Louis is muttering as he feels Lestat's mouth leave the bruised place beneath his arm. Looking down, he sees 'Stat's head pause.

Lestat places his ear over Louis' heart listening to the quickened pulse, and the steep breathing before turning his attention to Louis' right nipple. Worrying at the taut flesh, nipping sharply, and then drawing hard upon it until he hears Louis gasping, feels the hand in his hair, tighten, pulling. He laps Louis' ribcage with the flat of his tongue, long, sweeping strokes, shivering at the taste of blood in Louis' sweat. His free hand is pulling at the flesh over Louis' hipbone. Pushing his tongue into the shallow well of Louis' navel, sucking there, feeling again a strong pulse, small artery there below the skin.

Smooth, silky flesh, so pale, with it's sheen of pink. The heat rising from Louis is nearly visible...Lestat is rapt with the feel of his lover, the scent of him. The sounds he makes entrance Lestat. Lifting his head, to look at Louis, the sight of him makes his breath catch, as it always has. He remembers still how he nearly forgot to breathe the first time he ever saw Louis. His beautiful Louis.

Lestat kneels up beside Louis, kissing his hand before releasing it. He crawls to the bottom of the bed and picks up Louis' right foot. Rubbing it between his hands, tickling the arch a little to make Louis squirm and try to pull away. Tracing the veins that ridge toward the instep. Suckling the long toes, pushing his tongue between each of them. His hands busy, massaging and rubbing the calf muscles, stroking the soft skin behind Louis' knees. Slowly, all of this so slowly. Worshipful and wanton, loving and lustful. Kissing and licking his way up between Louis' legs, pausing halfway up one sleek thigh to sink his teeth into the muscle, once again avoiding any major vessels, another sweet taste of his lover, rubbing his face against the slowly bleeding wound. The scent fills his head, smears of scarlet on the skin of his cheek, drowning in Louis. Drowning. The wound is closed.

Lestat crawls up Louis' body, poised above him. Holding himself over Louis and leaning down to kiss him. Demon visage, blood on his face, in his hair. Louis reaches, pulling Lestat down upon him, wanting to feel the muscled golden body on his own. Their kissing becomes fierce, they writhe against each other, the feel of skin on skin suddenly becoming all-consuming.

Consumed. Louis has always felt consumed by Lestat. He growls his lovers name each time he can snatch a breath between the hungry kissing. His skin burns from his face to his feet, along the paths that Lestat has seared with his lips. His teeth and his tongue. Each sharp little bite Lestat had left felt bright with heat. Overwhelmed. He feels this, too, with Lestat. Overwhelmed with love, helpless before the strength and depth of his feelings. And if he feels that his skin is afire from his lover's attention, he feels also that Lestat is the living flame he holds in his arms. He groans as he twists under Lestat's slow and insistent advance. He can taste Lestat's blood in his mouth, the Brat's lips torn as his own are by their demanding assault upon one another.

Essence.

Lestat in his mouth. And his cock, Louis can feel him, pushing against his belly, oh, wondrous, the wondrous hardness of him. His own cock, throbbing and straining. His hands slipping down Lestat's sweated back, nails tearing the pliant golden flesh, butter soft under the pads of his fingers.

Lines of exquisite heat down his back, Louis' nails tearing stinging trails of sensation. He pulls back takes his mouth from Louis'. Lestat's hand, slipped beneath Louis' head, to hold him tenderly. No words possible, as they fall victim, each to other, absorbed by one another. Still for the moment, raggedly breathing. Their mouths are painted with blood, reddened and torn. No longer sublimely picture perfect, now an artist might flee in fright, or be reduced to incoherence. The passion here is beyond the skill of any sculptor to capture in cold veins of marble. The palette now would be one of fire and violent desire and red, red blood. Their urgent need for one another is too strong to be held prisoner on canvas or in stone.

A single drop of blood falls from Lestat's mouth onto Louis'. Blue eyes, pulled from green as he gazes at Louis' mouth, that angels' mouth that has driven him to feverish aching passion, and also soothed him at the worst points of his immortal life. Louis' tongue, gathering that one drop, absorbing it, shivering at the sublime taste. Their shared essence is essentially the same, but each can taste the subtle, different quality that embodies the other. One more moment, suspended in the ocean of time that they dwell in, one more still, long moment, and then Louis' hand is behind Lestat's head, pulling him back to his mouth.

Kissing again. But no kiss that mortals have ever shared. Savaging each other, teeth clashing. Wolfish snarling, jaws snapping as they roll over and over on the bed. In the midst of this, growled laughter. This game is not so deadly as it looks, the eroticism undeniable to blood-drinking creatures such as they. The lines of pain and pleasure forever blurred between them, all of it geared toward one goal. Oneness. Sublime physicality, pushing each other to bring their souls together.

Lestat's leg between Louis' thighs, Louis rides him, grinding himself against Lestat's hipbone, licking salaciously at the blonde's throat.

"Mon Cher..." He says, grazing Lestat's neck, "What are you waiting for my love? " His hand is between them, curling around Lestat's cock, he raises his leg, and pushes himself against his lover, guiding Lestat's cock into himself.

Tight. He's so tight. Still holding onto himself, Lestat pushes into his lover slowly, the slick heat of Louis' body closing around him. "...Mon Dieu..." Lestat moans softly. Enveloped with heat, he hilts himself into Louis. Louis, open to him, straining to him, his inner muscles contracting and holding him. Pulling back, nearly out, raised up, holding himself over Louis with his hands, he thrusts back into him. Fucking him with rough, slow, strokes, pausing between each one. Louis is muttering, meeting his lover's deep thrusts with the same jarring force. He can see Lestat's bowed and sweated back working over him in the mirror across the room. Muscles limned and gleaming with a sheen of bloodsweat. He's so beautiful, Louis thinks, even as he groans at the spreading fire that is consuming him from within. Dragging his eyes from the image in the glass, he looks up into Lestat's eyes, dilated violet, drowning pools.

Lestat is watching Louis' face as he moves within him. He knows Louis can see them in the glass across the room, his lust roused further by the idea of Louis watching their images. When the green eyes move back to meet his, he's staggered as always by what he sees there, the naked want, and the love. Always the love. What does he see when he looks at me? The question bright in his mind for a moment. Louis arms twine around his neck, pulling him down once more, their hard rhythm uninterrupted as their mouths come together again. What does he see?

The slow thrusting is driving Louis to the point of eager and willing madness, that inner core of pleasure roughly met with each stroke, the spiraling, unbearable sweetness washing through him, his cock, rigid to the point of pain. He feels his climax rushing toward him, knows there will be no stopping it, no slowing it. Lestat is watching his face, intent, focused. He can feel the tension in his lover, knows it's close.

"Louis.." He croons in a hoarse whisper, "It's time, my baby, come for me..." Deep, slow strokes. That keening wail, the sound that pierces Lestat's heart, undoes him every time he hears it. Louis, keening for his lover, his darling. Louis keening for his Lestat, and then he's coming, the bloody orgasm coating them both, bellies slick now as they slide against each other.

Louis is clinging tight to Lestat. The Brat stops his movement, rolling to his side, pulling Louis with him. Louis moves his leg over Lestat's hip to keep him inside, unable to bear the thought of releasing him. Lestat is stroking Louis' tangled black hair, whispering to him, licking his ear, the side of his face. Louis has his face buried in Lestat's neck, tears sliding from his eyes. Murmuring to Lestat, his voice muffled. Lestat knows what he's saying. "My life. My only love." He opens his mouth over Lestat's skin. He can feel the hitch in Lestat's breath as he drives his fangs deeply into the golden flesh.

*This* release, the flow of blood into his mouth, the hot stream of it in his throat...ecstasy. The touch of Lestat's mind, the coming together of their emotions, the sensations they are feeling, how perfect. Lestat can feel the little orgasmic spasms that are still shivering through Louis, and Louis...he can feel his own tightness, clenched muscles around Lestat's hard cock. The sensations mingled, until they are not sure where the feelings are coming from. Both of them sharing the swoon that Louis is locked in, the sexual tension still gripping Lestat. Lestat can feel Louis' bliss at the taste of his blood. They are locked together this way for a long time, barely moving. The only sounds are their breathing and the wet sound of Louis suckling slowly from his lover.

What picture is this? Creatures so beautiful it's painful, nearly blinding at times to look at them. Locked in an embrace that is as natural to them as it would be deadly to humans. So still, they look like the carved stone. What picture? Smeared bloody, matted hair glued to their skin. A sculpture of damned creatures? Surely not, despite the brutality that spilled blood represents to all things mortal.

Louis rolls Lestat onto his back, and lets go of the Brat's throat with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Still dizzy from the swoon, he raises himself so that his is astride Lestat. He squeezes the hard cock inside of him with his inner muscles, wringing a low moan from his lover. He begins moving himself on Lestat, gripping and releasing as he moves. Lestat's hips joining the movement.

"Oh yes....oh gods, Louis... "

Lestat reaches, curling his hands around Louis' slim hips. Fucking him again. "Ahh....jesus, Louis...." Trying to find that slow pace he had before, unable to...gripped now by the faster rhythm Louis has begun. Louis feels the tearing inside himself, his groaning mingling with Lestat as his blood facilitates Lestat's thrusting. His eyes are fastened to Lestat's ravaged neck, the deeper wounds still leaking blood. His mouth is watering.

When his orgasm comes, it's blinding. His mouth is open, but no sound emerges as he writhes, hilted in Louis, yet pinned beneath him, held down as Louis clenches him as hard as he can. Coming, his blood leaving him in a dizzying rush. One word, a breath of a sigh from his lips. "Louis." His hands, leaving deep bruises on Louis' hips. He lets go, and reaches up, pulling Louis to his chest in a crushing embrace.

After a long while, Lestat's arms relax the smallest amount, and Louis murmurs his thanks for once again being allowed to breathe freely. Lestat opens one blue eye to look at his lover.

"You should tell me, my darling, when you can't breathe. I should hate to lose you because I cannot let go of you." Louis rolls off of him, feeling a pang of loss as he releases Lestat's cock. He curls his body over and around the Brat's.

"As if I would ever leave you, Mon Ange." Louis says as he kisses his lover sweetly on his bruised mouth. Lestat chuckles.

"As if I would ever let you go. " He answers. He looks around them.

"Is there a salvagable blanket in this heap? " Lestat asks, pulling on of the shredded sheets up and over Louis and himself. They are lying face to face, noses touching.

"You're still pretty, Louis, even with that incurable bedhead of yours." Lestat says, smiling widely.

"I can always cut it off, sweeting." Louis answers "Good as new tomorrow you know."

"You'll do no such thing. You're not leaving this bed." Lestat says comfortably. He nestles his face onto Louis' chest, closing his eyes in contentment. Louis runs his fingers through the Brats' tangled, golden mane of hair, patiently working out the snarls.

"And really, 'Stat, you have no room to talk about bedhead...." He tugs at a particularly large knot smiling when Lestat winces, and bats at his hand.

"On the other hand, maybe I should cut *my* hair off. I don't think you're going to get the knots out like *this*" Lestat says as he rolls over onto his back, dragging the torn sheet with him, hopelessly tangling it around his legs.

"I don't think so, my love. If *I'm* not leaving the bed, than neither are *you*"

Louis reaches down to the floor, fishing up a few pillows and the comforter, and they rearrange themselves. Lestat is once again lying with his head on Louis' shoulder, purring softly as Louis gathers him close. He feels warm and loose, pleasantly sore and sleepy. It occurs to him that he's completely and utterly contented. He moves his head up to kiss Louis, and sees the same contented satisfaction in his lover's green eyes. He kisses Louis again and lays his head back down on Louis' chest.

In spite of the shredded bedclothes, the streaks of drying blood on their skin, the wounds on their flesh, and bedhead notwithstanding, this picture is perfect. The two of them ensconced in their bed, murmuring to each other, their hands again entwined, their happiness like a warm light radiating from them. Nothing and no one intruding on the sweetness of the moment. Picture Perfect.

Fin