Work Text:
It is of utmost importance that all members of court –annoyed hissing– pledge to act according to the rules set by –ugly cackling– the prince and his privy councillors. These rules are to be enforced by anyone who accepts to become part of –tussling and turning– the court to assure that our community is protected from external and internal forces. In the event of non-compliance–
A loud, guttural moan cried out in unexpected pleasure is what finally makes Marius put the quill down. He takes a deep breath, smoothing the page where his decree awaits unfinished with a soft hand. There is nothing to flatten really; the paper the court splurges on is too firm, too thick, to wrinkle under the side of his palm, but the gesture is comforting, practised. Marius has always liked the feel of soft things under his hands.
Under normal circumstances, he could have written an ordinance as simple as this one –one he had repeated to countless vampires over the years without any relevant changes– in under an hour. When he’s focused, his hand glides over pages as fast as his body does between the clouds on his trips from the chateau to Paris. Nevertheless, under normal circumstances he does not have Amadeo and Lestat quarreling behind him.
He’s not sure how long it’s been going on, but it’s starting to become a problem, considering how it’s distracting him from his duties. Perhaps it’s his fault; Marius should have known that allowing Lestat to tail after him when Amadeo was waiting at his chamber would only end up in trouble. His children have never been ones to sit still and listen, after all.
Conversing quickly turned to bickering, which inevitably became fighting, then came the hissing and scratching and biting. By the sweet noises Lestat is making now, Marius assumes the biting has gone from a demonstration of power to a mutual pleasuring faster than it usually does for these two.
Marius doesn’t turn around, chooses not to let himself be swayed by the blood nymphs calling to him from his bedsheets. Instead, he picks the quill back up. With the Naiads enamoured with each other, Hylas returns to the Argo.
It is of utmost importance that all members of court –soft whines– pledge to act according to the rules set by –breathless panting– the prince and his privy councillors. These rules are to be enforced by anyone who accepts to become part of –pants unbuttoned– the court to assure that our community is protected from external and internal forces. In the event of non-compliance, the rebels will be captured and face the prince –fangs tearing flesh– and his advisors on a trial. The punishment for those who are found guilty of minor crimes is imprisonment in the court’s dungeons –wet kissing– and for those who are found guilty of major crimes is death. The method of execution is at the prince's discretion.
His hand keeps writing, even as his mind wanders further in the room. He’ll probably have to rewrite everything once they finish their games; he fears his penmanship isn’t at its best when he’s distracted. And he is distracted, no matter how hard he tries to pretend he’s too old to let himself be affected by such childish games.
Hard not to be affected when he can feel the air shifting with their movements, their hips rolling against each other, the sheets wrinkling under their clenched hands. Even his lungs can feel the warmth in the air he breathes that wasn’t there before, almost as if he were breathing it straight from Lestat’s panting mouth. And the noises– oh, those desperate noises leaving his Amadeo’s throat, the sweet sounds Lestat’s body makes under that of his fledgling. The brushing of clothes against skin, sheets and then the floor. Marius can hear every time they come together only to break apart, he can feel it. Age, Marius has found, can be as much a blessing as it is a curse.
He’s yet to decide which one it will be tonight.
“Armand,” Lestat calls to the fallen angel above him, raising his hips from the bed to make contact with the other’s, rustling the bedsheets with his move. “Armand, touch me. Come on, touch me.”
Amadeo doesn’t answer, he just does as he’s told, dragging his dry hand to Lestat’s dick. Not for the first time watching his children together, Marius feels conflicted. On the one hand, he is proud of his precious Amadeo, always so eager to please, to follow every command to make his lover feel good. On the other hand, Lestat is –as Marius has so often claimed– a brat. And brats shouldn’t be rewarded for their bad behaviour.
Frantic demands without a please or thank you must be met with discipline. Just like a musician rushing through the score needs to be corrected by their director. Lestat is an insistent scherzo and Amadeo refuses to turn him into an adagio. It is almost adorable.
A metallic, cloying smell rushes through the air until, suddenly, it’s all Marius can smell. Such a thick scent it is, he can feel it dripping into his lungs and sticking to his gums. It reminds him of warm, summer days in his youth, of all the times he dipped his fingers in the honey kept in the larder when no one was looking. He can’t remember the taste, so long from those darling days now. Still, he thinks it couldn’t have been as sweet as Lestat’s blood is.
Drool falls on his desk, right beside the parchment he’s supposed to be writing, and Marius quickly moves it aside to protect it from any further accidents. With his left hand, he dries the saliva dribbling from his mouth. He hadn’t even realised his fangs had descended. Fuck.
By the sounds of barely lubricated friction, Marius assumes Amadeo has chosen to use Lestat’s blood as aid today. And if Lestat’s noises of pleasure, breathed each time Amadeo’s fingers touch that soft spot inside him, are any indication, he must not care that the slide is less than fluid. Alas, Marius can’t care either. Not when the smell of blood keeps on growing with every thrust. It must be a very deep cut his Amadeo gave the brat; perhaps he’s not as gullible as Marius thought.
“I’m–” He hears Lestat begin before he’s cut off by a moan. “I’m ready. You can stop–” A whine this time. “You can stop this torture and fuck me now. Come on, hurry up.”
“You’re not,” Amadeo scoffs, and Marius smiles. He can imagine the longer pieces of hair trembling under his fledgling’s breath.
“I am.”
“You’re not. I can literally feel you straining against my fingers.”
Lestat tries to laugh; Marius can hear that mean tint in his smile without needing to hear it finish, though it turns into a groan halfway. “What would you even know? It’s not like you’re usually in this position, mon ange. Perhaps that’s why you’re making it so tedious; you want to bore me into fucking you.” The little prince feigns a yawn at that. Marius lifts an eyebrow and listens for Amadeo’s reaction, which never comes. Distractedly, he thinks Lestat is very lucky; Marius would’ve already slapped him so hard he’d fall off the bed. “Well, you might be getting what you want at this rate. Je vais faire de toi ma pute si tu ne commences pas–”
Marius can hear fabric rustling and flesh grazing flesh, and then they’re fucking. Just like that, Lestat got what he wanted and Amadeo didn’t even try to bite back. He’d like to believe that it’s his presence in the room that’s affecting his fledgling; that maybe if they were alone Amadeo wouldn’t have any trouble putting the brat in his place. Perhaps he’s afraid of disappointing his maker if he acts in ways Marius would never allow in their bed. Deep down, however, he knows it not to be true. If it were, Lestat wouldn't be so confident that his little tricks are going to work. No, clearly this is a play they’ve rehearsed countless times. Lestat is writer, director and actor. Amadeo, just a prop.
It wouldn’t disappoint him, though. Marius instructed Amadeo on respect and obedience and honour, but he also taught him to instil those things in others. Or at least he thought he had. If Amadeo believed Marius would be disappointed by seeing him take charge, he was wrong. He’s not disappointed; he’s ashamed.
Ahasmed that a fledgling of his –stronger than most, smarter than most, braver than most– could command so little respect. Ashamed that his pupil has not learnt a single thing from Marius’s own behaviours. Ashamed that a boy, three hundred years younger than Amadeo, thinks so little of Marius he figures he can diminish one of his fledglings and leave unscathed.
He’s considering sneaking into Lestat's head and asking him to be gentle when the boy starts speaking again.
“Harder,” he grunts, though Marius can hear the breath being punched out of him. “Armand, harder, come on.” Marius can hear kissing, probably Amadeo trying to quiet the words. It lasts one, maybe two minutes, and then he hears Amadeo let out an annoyed groan. The glee he can feel oozing from Lestat lets him know the outward quiet doesn’t mean he was fully silent. “Just a little bit more, mon ange.” Marius hears more shuffling, and suddenly, they’re both moaning, sounds muffled against the other’s skin. “Yes, just like that. Keep it there, that’s good. Yeah, that’s exactly what I me– no! No, no, no, not like that, fuck. Come on, you need to go back to–”
Marius puts his quill down and into the black velvet box he keeps it in. He’s heard enough.
Slowly, he turns around so he faces the scene. They’re beautiful, Marius already knew that, of course, but it doesn’t affect him less when he gets to see them like this. His Amadeo’s back tensing and relaxing with every thrust, holding his weight on his arms so he can gaze at the flushing cherub under him. Marius has the urge to paint them, to immortalise them on a canvas– no, a wall, to assure such beauty will endure until the end of time. Perhaps he will, later. He’s got more pressing issues now.
“Amadeo, stop, this is absurd.”
His fledgling gasps offended, turning his head back with a look so petulant it takes Marius back to the summer before he was turned, to the spoilt young man he was then. “It’s not my fault–”
“Of course not, tesoro mio. Our Lestat here is acting like a brat, though. And brats need a firmer hand than you have provided so far.” Marius smiles sweetly at his fledgling for a fleeting second, letting his smile fade the longer Amadeo doesn’t react. “Move.”
They both scream at the same time, “What?” although Amadeo’s scream is confused whereas Lestat’s is annoyed.
“Amadeo, I won’t say it again. Move.”
He can see a flicker of doubt in Amadeo’s eyes, like he's thinking of disagreeing, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. Visibly angry and with a still erect cock bobbing between his legs, Amadeo scrambles out of the bed and sits in the armchair by the window. Arms crossed in indignation the way he did whenever Marius forbade him and his other pupils to go into town.
From the corner of his eye, Marius sees Lestat start to sit up.
“What makes you think that I–” Marius doesn’t allow Lestat to finish the sentence before he uses the mind gift to pin him back on the bed. Lestat rolls his eyes, trying to cover up the gasp that came out of his mouth upon impact, and goes to sit up again only to find he’s unable to. His whole body being held still by Marius, who walks up to him calmly as the boy starts to talk again. “Let me go.” Marius reaches the bed. There, he allows a finger to trace the muscles on Lestat’s calf. “I said let me go.” The fine, blond hair on his thigh, the bone of his hip. “Marius, I’m not playing. Stop this now.”
Finally, he reaches Lestat’s broad chest. His palm rests on the centre of it and he spreads his fingers to reach as far as he can. Under his hand he feels the short, panicked breaths coming in and out of Lestat’s nose, making his chest expand and contract, and the frantic beat of his heart underneath it. A rabbit spotting the wolf.
“Are you nervous, child?”
Lestat frowns. “Fuck you. I told you to–”
Marius slaps him.
In the back he can hear Amadeo gasp, but Marius misses the expression on his face, his eyes focused on the red imprint quickly forming on Lestat’s cheek. It’ll fade as quickly as it appeared, so Marius enjoys it while he can, memorising the exact hue of crimson blooming under the pale skin so he can replicate it later on a canvas. A few seconds later the mark is gone, but the perplexed look on Lestat’s face isn’t. Neither is his erection, which Marius can see twitching on his hip just on the edge of his peripheral vision.
Distractedly, Marius thinks on how Lestat could implode him with his mind now if he wanted to. If he wanted to, Marius would be nothing but pieces of flesh splashed on the walls. But Lestat doesn’t want to, Marius knows he doesn’t. After all, Lestat has always longed to be good.
“You don’t talk back; in fact, you don’t talk unless I ask you to. Be careful, Lestat, or next time I won’t use my hand, understood?” Lestat obnoxiously raises an eyebrow at him, already proving that he hasn’t understood. Marius stops himself from sighing, he won’t give Lestat the satisfaction. “You can talk now.”
When he replies, Lestat’s smile is ugly and fake and so much like the ones Amadeo gives him at court that it catches Marius off guard. “Va te faire foutre. I’m not your fledgling, you can’t boss me arou–” Marius’ hands work on his belt so fast that Lestat hears its whipping sound before he sees the leather flying towards his pale thighs. And if his lack of reaction is anything to go by, he certainly doesn’t see it before it’s breaking his skin– drawing the prettiest scream out of his vicious throat, a scream so pretty it’s only eclipsed by the even prettier blood gushing from the cut left on his right thigh.
Marius allows himself a look at Amadeo, if only so he can see the way his pupils dilate –the amber on his iris almost completely swallowed by the blackness, an inverted blood moon– and how his breath picks up as the smell of his prey grows stronger. Marius will get him his reward, eventually. His Amadeo has always been too impatient, anyway, it’ll do him good to wait.
“You’re right, my prince. You’re not my fledgling, you’d be much more well-behaved if you were,” Marius admits, one of his hands softly caressing the skin around the cut, letting Lestat relax under his touch before he lazily starts fingering the wound with his index finger. At the same time, Lestat represses a flinch and an eyeroll, choosing instead to look unconvinced at Amadeo. “You’re not my fledgling, but you’re my child, aren’t you? I dug you up from the hole you’d buried yourself in, fed you my blood so you’d grow strong and powerful. Gave you a place to sleep and taught you everything I knew. Almost groomed you to become my heir, but how could I not? Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same strong spirit; I knew you were destined for great things.” He looks around the ostentatious room as if to prove his point. “But children sometimes need to be put in their places.”
Although with less confidence than before, Marius can still see a retort forming in Lestat's mind. And even if vampires cannot get headaches, Marius will not tempt fate by allowing Lestat to voice his thoughts. Therefore, he takes the fingers still playing with Lestat’s wound out of his flesh and into his mouth, rubbing the bloody tips on Lestat’s gums to make sure the boy stays quiet.
It works, Lestat goes scarily still as Marius rubs his fingers on Lestat’s gums, the inside of his cheeks, his fangs. There he spends a little extra time, just for his own pleasure, feeling the hardness of Lestat’s fangs grow under his touch. Marius would never tell Lestat, the boy has a big enough ego as it is, but he’s got the biggest fangs Marius has ever seen– so large sometimes that Lestat struggles to fit them in his mouth, forcing him to leave it slightly open and making him look like a fool. Almost like he does now, with his mouth forced open by the fingers massaging his insides, drooling all over his chin and Marius’ hand like a starving dog.
Marius imagines it for a second, putting Lestat in a collar and making him sit by his leg during court meetings, teaching him to bark once for yes and twice for no. Perhaps he’d let Lestat rut against his calf if he showed actual interest in the matters discussed– but no, Marius would find it a bother. He could allow Lestat to rut against Amadeo’s leg instead, though. The image of his boys embarrassed and flustered in front of their elders manages to bring a small smile to his lips. Generously, he lets Lestat in on his thoughts.
The responding moan sounds exactly the way Marius expected it to. So predictable, his Lestat.
Marius sees the haziness fogging Lestat’s eyes and takes advantage of the moment to flip him on the bed. Face down, hips up– Marius only takes a second to admire the way Lestat instinctually arches his back under him before he’s unbuttoning his trousers and pushing his dick into Lestat’s entrance.
Of course, the scream is even more predictable, if a little dramatic. After all, Amadeo had been fucking him not that long ago. And Marius might be bigger than Amadeo is, but surely it can’t hurt that bad, not with the way Lestat squeezes him sweetly the moment he pushes in. Still, Marius curses Amadeo for not having used an adequate lubricant; blood makes for a poor substitute. Alas, Marius will do with what he has.
Because he’s not cruel –strict yes, cruel never– he starts slow, moving his hips slowly so that inch by inch he can bury himself inside Lestat. Then he waits a couple of minutes, just enough to allow Lestat to get used to the feel again and so he himself can get used to the warmth of the walls surrounding him, trying to entice him to stay there forever with their embrace. And when Lestat’s cries turn into whines, he carefully pulls back again, just so he can properly begin thrusting into him, deep and paced in a way he knows Lestat will appreciate best.
Except that Lestat can never simply take what’s been freely given to him, can he? No, he must take and take and take.
“Marius,” he’s begging after a few minutes of it. A few minutes where he’s been moaning and grunting in sync with every slide of Marius’ cock inside him. “Marius, go faster, come on, I’m not gonna break.” Marius rolls his eyes, the way Lestat’s dick is steadily leaking on the sheets is proof enough that there is no need to change anything, he won’t fall for baseless complaints. “What– what are you waiting for? You know I can take it, I’m stronger than you now anyway.”
“Amadeo,” Marius calls casually, groaning when he looks towards his fledgling and sees him palming himself at the sight. Not for the first time, he wishes he could read Amadeo’s mind, see all the lewd ideas that live there. “How do you think we could shut him up?”
“Oh please, like he knows anything about staying–”
“You should tie your belt around his throat,” Amadeo suggests, immediately shutting Lestat up. “Thigten it every time he dares open his mouth, watch his pretty pale face turn purple.” Amadeo must say something else only for Lestat to hear, because after a short pause Lestat groans loudly and bucks back against Marius. “I’m sure that will teach him not to misbehave, maestro.”
Marius smiles satisfied and grabs the belt from where he left it on the other side of the bed. “Very good, Amadeo. Always such a good pupil.” He wastes no time, wraps the belt around Lestat’s throat and tugs hard enough to lift Lestat’s chest from the bed. Through all of this Lestat stays still and lets Marius do as he pleases, of course. This was probably his plan all along, Marius thinks bitterly, but refuses to dwell on that.
No, he can’t think of how Lestat has him exactly where he wanted him, at least not while his cock is being squeezed so good Marius is afraid he’ll come before Lestat has learned his lesson. And especially not when he’s about to obey Lestat’s former command, taking a deep breath and picking up his pace, pounding punishingly into Lestat until he falls flat on the bed. Marius pulls him back up, one hand grabbing his hip and holding it in place while the other tugs at the belt to get Lestat to support himself with his arms. Lestat goes with him, docile as a dog now, and allows Marius to fuck him the way he wants with only his moans and sighs as a response.
Because he can’t really help it, Lestat tries to grind back from time to time, asking Marius to match his moves with a soft whimper and an uncoordinated grab with his hand. It doesn’t work, Marius just grips his hip tighter to still him– tight enough the bruises will last hours after they’re finished, when Marius is back to his paperwork and Lestat returns to his chambers and his consort.
“Marius,” Lestat mumbles against the sheets, his bottom lip softly catching on a wrinkle. He gets ready to pull from the bed, but Lestat manages to speak first. “Kiss me. Please.”
Oh. Marius can do that, if Lestat is going to ask nicely then Marius can give him what he asks for. Sometimes, and he’d never admit to this, Marius thinks he’d give Lestat anything if he said please and thank you. After all, Marius is just a loyal servant to his prince.
Slowing his pace but keeping the force behind his thrusts, Marius drapes himself over Lestat’s back so he can reach his mouth. He moves some wild strands behind Lestat’s ear and caresses the soft lobe there, noticing the lack of earrings tonight. When they finally kiss, it’s deep and sensuous and wet and slightly messy the way Lestat’s kisses always are, and Marius can’t help but moan inside his mouth, letting Lestat devour his sounds the way he devours everything else. Takes and takes and takes.
While he allows Lestat to use his mouth however he likes, Marius drags his free hand up from the boy’s hip. He feels Lestat’s muscles jump under his fingertips, the shape of his ribs protruding in his wide torso and how goosebumps rise on his skin when Marius allows his nails to graze it. When his hands make it to Lestat’s chest, Marius breaks their kiss so his Amadeo can hear the noises Lestat makes when Marius rubs his nipples with no obstacle to the sound. Such beautiful sounds they are, Lestat’s whimpers. Marius has never cared for music much –at least not in the way Lestat and Sybelle care about it– he’s always favoured visual arts, though he now finds himself wishing he did, longing to compose a concerto with every sound Lestat has made tonight.
Under him Lestat is finally melting, his body following Marius’ lead, at last letting Marius take control and guide him the way he needs.
“My perfect child,” Marius whispers softly, his own face pressed up against Lestat’s neck where he can best smell his blood rushing under the surface. “The best of them all. So good for me when you want to.” He hears Amadeo snort somewhere behind him and fails to contain a smile. “Will you be good for your brother after I’m done? Let Amadeo suck my seed from your hole before he fucks you? You must, Lestat. He’s very possessive, my Amadeo, hates sharing those he considers only his.”
His hips start moving faster of their own accord, chasing a release that creeps closer the longest he spends thinking about his children together. Such beautiful boys, turned at their peak– the perfect mix of youth and strength, with hair curling at their shoulders in the same way like two brothers from different fathers. That, the gift of forever beauty, is one thing their makers did right by them, if nothing else.
“Yes,” Lestat hisses, and Marius moves his body back so he can start properly pounding on Lestat and make good on his promise. Lestat’s voice resumes at the same time he opens his eyes to stare at Amadeo. The haze is gone. “He is very possessive. But of whom? Maybe he hates sharing me with you, seeing how you have me in ways he only dreams of. Remember, Marius, that I’m the one allowed into his head. And Armand isn’t fantasising about taking your cock right now precisely."
“Liar!” Amadeo screams, sitting straight on his chair like he’s readying himself to pounce at any second. “You’re a fucking lying bastard. I should rip your tongue out and eat it so you never speak again.”
“I bet you’d like that.” The smugness in Lestat’s voice only seems to infuriate his fledgling further.
“Shut your mouth, slut,” Amadeo barks and Marius can feel Lestat’s hole clench around his dick at the words. “Mari– Mestro, I’m not…”
Marius is too old for these games. Truthfully, Amadeo should be too, considering he’s over half a century now; it’s pathetic that he still loses his temper like this when faced with a little bratiness.
“Be quiet, Amadeo, don’t give him the reaction he so obviously craves. You’ll get your reward soon enough, anyway.” He sees Amadeo open his mouth to retort and raises an eyebrow. Amadei sits back down, cock painfully hard bouncing on his lap. Marius looks back to Lestat, already looking up at him with a satisfied smirk. “As for you…”
He kneels back behind Lestat, bending his right leg so his feet can rest next to Lestat’s knee, drops the belt strap and uses his newly freed hand to pin Lestat’s head to the bed, effectively erasing that smirk from the boy’s face when he hooks his thumb on the corner of Lestat’s mouth. Briefly, he considers tearing the skin there and giving Lestat a scar mirroring the one on the other corner. In his new position, Marius closes his mind to Lestat’s nagging and fucking into the warm walls surrounding his cock.
It’s fast and hard and mean, an incessant thrusting designed to bring Marius to orgasm as fast as possible while only granting Lestat the most superficial pleasure. The hand on his hip stops Lestat from rutting his cock into the bed and the frantic pace of Marius’ drives manages to avoid his sweet spot most of the time. Lestat doesn’t seem to mind, though; he moans and whines and grunts and stays completely still for Marius’ pleasure. Around his thumb, Marius feels Lestat mumble something similar to ‘Armand’, he drags his eyes to his fledgling and sees Amadeo lazily stroking himself with a hand while he massages his balls with the other, a mean glint in his eyes. Marius peaks into Lestat’s head, looking for residues of the thoughts Amadeo must be speaking to him. As always, the boy’s head is a mess of disconnected thoughts and feelings, but Marius manages to catch some loose words. Whore. Desperate. Dumb slut. Beautiful. Idiot. Needy. Mine. Dog. Fleshlight.
He comes. Sudden and violent as he tries to lengthen his orgasm by grinding onto Lestat until the walls squeezing at his cock turn painful from the overstimulation. His fangs descend, ready to pounce on the body under him, but Marius resists it –mostly because he knows Lestat would come if he didn’t– and bites his own hand. To his left, Amadeo whines when his maker’s scent clogs the room.
It’s a miracle that he manages to get off the bed without his legs shaking, but he’s glad about it, because that way he can feign some semblance of control while he pulls his trousers back up. Anticipation starts building the longer Marius takes sorting himself out while his children look at him: Lestat clenching his ass and shaking from how hard he’s trying not to rut against the bed, Amadeo sitting at the edge of his chair with eyes flying from prince to maker frantically.
Without looking up from where he’s fixing his cuffs, Marius gives Amadeo a small nod, a simple but concise order– no one can say he’s not benevolent.
The second Marius’ head starts to move Amadeo leaps to the bed, going so far as to use his vampiric speed to cross the three metres separating him from his destiny. Marius shakes his head fondly; his Amadeo has always been eager, no matter how much Marius tried to instruct him in the art of the wait. On the desk, his unfinished decree awaits him: he sits back down on his chair, going over the words already written while he lazily observes the performance on the mattress.
As soon as he climbs on the bed, Amadeo lines up his dick with Lestat’s hole and enters him without question. He’s using Marius’ cum as lube –which, if Marius is allowed to say, makes for a way better lubricant than blood– and the wet, squelching sounds coming from the friction of their bodies have his nose wrinkling. That’s too vulgar for his liking, crass and obscene in the most feral and raw way he can think of.
He bets Lestat must love it.
His Amadeo, poor soul, doesn’t last too long. He comes with quick, staccato drives burying him deep in Lestat and a gasp like he’s amazed that he’s allowed to experience such pleasure. After, while he’s still coming down, he bites on Lestat’s shoulder blade and sucks on his skin like an oyster, which –as Marius had predicted– has the boy immediately orgasm under him.
And because no matter how far he strays or how much he rebels, his Amadeo wastes no time in licking their cum of Lestat’s ass once they’re finished, like Marius ordered him to. Botticelli’s angel, Marius called him once; imp, many have since– Marius can see why now, as Amadeo sneaks two fingers into Lestat’s used hole to play with his prostate while he sucks at his rim, cleaning every trace of them out of Lestat’s skin until he’s crying and begging him to stop with squirming legs and a broken voice.
Amadeo does, eventually, and crawls up Lestat’s body until they’re face to face. Tiling his head up, Lestat blinks coyly like he’s waiting for a kiss, and Amadeo smiles sweetly at him before he spits the cum still sitting on his mouth at Lestat’s face. Then he gets up from the bed, grabs one of Marius’ robes in the hanger by the door and exits the room, leaving Lestat sitting dumbfounded on the bed.
Lestat blinks stupidly at Marius –like he cannot think of a single reason why Amadeo would treat him like that– one, two, three times, lashes sticking together under the cum, before he starts complaining.
“I have never in my 282 years of life fucked someone with as horrible aftercare etiquette as that fledgling of yours. My God, how jarring. I’d have expected something a little bit classier from one of your pupils, but I guess not all of us learn from the lesson we’re taught.” He stretches his whole body like a giant cat and jumps from the bed, prancing towards where Marius has gone back to pretending to read his parchment. Marius winces when Lestat sits down on his lap, already thinking on how to clean the cum stains from his nice trousers. “What are you working on? Will you scratch my head while you tell me? You must, Marius, or I’ll start crying on your pretty velvet robe.”
Marius purses his lips but does as he’s told, tangles his fingers on the golden locks cascading on his shoulder and tells Lestat about it. Lestat keeps interrupting to add suggestions that Marius was, obviously, already thinking of implementing, and to correct the way he writes every sentence to a different, ‘less pompous, more approachable’ style.
By the time they completely rewrite the first paragraph, Marius has accepted that he will not be handing his prince a finished decree tonight.