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Lestat tries not think about the fact that this is the fifth time in four days that he's fucked Armand. It doesn't mean anything, really. Armand's love is easy to come by, and Lestat has never been one to deny an indulgence.
He places one hand on Armand’s waist, another on his shoulder, and slowly bends him over the desk. He places wet kisses along the curve of his back, from neck to bottom. Armand shuffles his legs wide apart and arches his back, offering himself up. He glances at Lestat over his shoulder, his face heated and flushed.
“Are you going to tell Nicolas about us?”
Lestat takes Armand’s chin in his hand, turns his head away, and pushes Armand back down onto the desk. He unties his trousers and nudges Armand’s thighs wider apart. Lestat moans, dripping from the head of his cock as he lines himself up, and begins pushing inside. Armand chokes out a whimper as Lestat's thick girth pops past the ring of muscle until he is buried deep. The pleasure twists through Lestat's like a knife. He blows out a long breath to anchor himself as he watches Armand stretch to accommodate him. Armand is tight, he’s always so tight as he clenches around his cock.
“What is us?”
Lestat bottoms out inside of him and Armand lets out a deep moan.
“Please. Please Lestat.” Armand whines, desperate and oblivious of how needy he sounds.
Lestat is not ready when Armand rolls his hips back to meet his thrusts. Lestat pulls away slightly, then immediately pushes in hard again, causing them both to cry out in unison.
“Please what?” Lestat grips Armand’s waist with his huge hands, angles his hips higher to hit that sweet spot deep inside of him.
The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin fill the room and Armand can hardly get a word out. His chest heaves and his voice pitches higher and higher as Lestat moves inside him, already so sticky and wet. Lestat loves watching himself sliding in and out of Armand, he loves burying himself into the hilt over and over inside of the otherwise bossy maitre.
“T-tell Nicolas...I love...I love... you...ah….ah…ah…about…us…oh -”
Lestat grabs a fist full of Armand’s dark curls, arches his neck back, and murmurs low in his ear, “Sorry. Can’t understand you, Mon Cher.” Lestat punctuates his words with another snap of his hips. Armand’s cock throbs as rivulets of spend run down his thighs. He scrambles helplessly at the desk, sending papers and bottles of ink flying everywhere as he tries to hold onto something, anything.
Armand is always so much messier than Lestat anticipates. He’s shattered, wrecked, out of control, and Lestat basks in it. In an attempt to save the desk from total destruction, Lestat hauls Armand up against his back and splays a hand against his chest. He keeps his arm strapped across Armands’ chest, holding the babbling incoherent vampire back from collapsing.
Armand scrabbles for Lestat’s hand and interlaces their fingers, clinging to him tightly. His head rolls back against Lestat's shoulder and he lets out a breathy sigh.
An unwanted combination of guilt and shame seizes Lestat’s heart for a split-second. He conceals it in a rush before Armand can sense it. It’s easy to do when his body clamps around Lestat’s cock in a way that elicits a loud groan from Lestat's lips. His rhythm stutters for a moment and then sharpens into something that is deliciously ruthless.
Armand looks back at Lestat with an expression of desire, of pure devotion, and something like trust. His eyes are huge and round and sweet for such a little devil. The exquisite sounds that come out of him are nothing like Lestat could imagine. Every time it enchants him.
It keeps him coming back for more and more and more. Every whimper, every more, yes, please pushes Lestat to the edge. And that final cry that spills from Armand’s throat is one of the hottest, most seductive melodies Lestat's ever heard. He wants to hear Armand make it again, and again, and again. In the wings, the box, The Place Dauphine, the Hotel de Ville, at the feast of assumption, the night after, and all the nights to come after that.
Lestat comes undone with Armand. He buries his face in his neck, bites, and bursts inside of him with a deep, guttural moan. Lestat drinks the nectar that is Armand’s blood for a long time until he’s had his fill. He pulls out of Armand with a wet plop and gently drops him to the floor. Armand stares up at Lestat as he ties his trousers, eyes glazed over.
“Was it - was it good for you? Was I good?” Armand’s voice is surprisingly small when he asks. He always asks. Every time. Christ, how often does he need to hear it? Lestat's patience wears thin and he gives Armand a tight smile.
But then, he looks at the blood on Armand’s neck, between his legs, the way his hole is puckered and raw from being thoroughly fucked. The desk has long claw marks on it.
"You were perfect, Mon Cher. Beautiful in every way."
Armand visibly relaxes and smiles.
Lestat kneels and cradles Armand’s face in both hands. They exchange an indulgent, sloppy kiss that is full of heat. Lestat tastes the hunger and desperation emitting from Armand. He fills Lestat’s mouth with tongue and oh, Lestat whimpers, there comes a soft rumble at the base of his throat, because Armand’s kisses could wake the dead.
Lestat pulls away and wipes his mouth. Armand’s lips are swollen and wet. Lestat pulls Armand to his feet and brushes back a sweaty lock of hair.
“I am going downstairs to meet Nicki. We are going to a show and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Armand blinks.
“Oh. Can I -”
“No. It’s a date, Armand. Just Nicki and me.”
Armand nods like he understands, but Lestat knows he doesn’t. The silence grows stretched and uncomfortable between them. Armand picks at his cuticles and distracts himself by looking around for something to clean himself with. Lestat opens a cupboard, takes out an extra linen, and hands it to the vampire. Lestat breaks the awkward silence, unsure why he feels the need to justify himself to Armand.
“He needs this, Armand. Nicki has been improving, there have been less fits and outbursts. Surely you've noticed. I want him to keep getting better.”
“I know.”
Armand opens a desk drawer and takes out a container of dark pigment, dampens it with a bit of saliva, and dips his ivory brush into it. He stares into a mounted mirror as he reapplies the kohl to his eyes. His usual smooth and composed countenance vanishes, and his throat nervously constricts before he speaks.
“Can I take you out, Lestat? On a date? A real one. What I am saying is, I would like to take you out. I am formally asking if I can take you to a concert or a theatre show, just the two of us. Something romantic and real. Please?”
Lestat inwardly groans. Hundreds of years old and Armand can’t figure out social etiquette at all. Not in the long term, and not in any meaningful way. He should have left as soon as they finished. Lestat approaches Armand from behind and softly strokes the back of his neck with two fingers. Flashes and memories of Armand writhing beneath him, on top of him, arched against him, sideways, pushed up against a wall, between his legs - doing whatever he wants - fly through Lestat’s mind.
“How about tomorrow night you meet me in the basement. Just us two.” It’s a pathetic counter offer, but Armand’s expression brightens. He rocks back and forth on his heels as a thrill runs through him, his fangs flash, and he fidgets with his hands in excitement.
“Okay. It’s a date.”
Oh, god. He really can’t take a hint.
Lestat wishes Armand a good night’s hunt and quickly exits the room. There is no sensation of Armand following him, of lurking in the shadows, but he will be on edge all night. Armand's desperation and cunning cannot be underestimated. Lestat grabs a fistful of fresh decorative flowers that have been strategically placed around the theatre to take to Nicki, to the one who has his heart.