Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a sweltering hot day in New Orleans. Louis has forgone a jacket and tie, his hat is settled far back on his head, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows.

Despite the terrible heat, people meander around the carnival ground, kicking up the dust, wiping at their brows with handkerchiefs. Women carry dainty parasols to shield themselves from the harshness of the sun.

Louis wanders among the different attractions, a bearded and tattooed lady, a supposed lizard man, and women who belly dance with jingling belts, their eyes outlined in dark kohl. He moves away from the general throng, and towards the outskirts of the carnival grounds, there is a tent for “Lestat—Werewolf Boy”. The large painted poster shows a blonde haired young man with pale blue eyes, a pair of golden ears atop his head and a long tail of the same colour extending from his tailbone.

Raising an eyebrow, Louis approaches the tent, where a bored looking man sits, idly chewing on a toothpick.

“How much for entry?” Louis asks.

“A quarter,” is the reply from toothpick chewer.

Louis wants to argue that that’s a pretty steep price of admission, but he can’t help the desire to see the supposed Werewolf Boy. He fishes the quarter out from his pocket and hands it over, avoiding touching the dirty fingernails.

“No touchin’,” the man grunts, as Louis lifts up the tent flap.

The tent is cool and dimly lit. After the glare outside, it takes him a moment to see what’s inside, but when he does, he covers his mouth in horror. On the ground, kneeling, head bent, is the man from the poster. Metal cuffs encircle his wrists, ankles and neck, which extend to bolts in the earth. His blonde hair falls all the way to his thighs in greasy, tangled curls, his pale skin is filthy, and he has bruises on most of his body. When he looks up, Louis gasps. He is utterly beautiful, eyes a piercing blue, but he has a blooming bruise on one high cheek, a scabbed cut in the centre.

There are streaks in the dirt on the werewolf’s face, showing he’s been crying recently. Louis’ heart squeezes in his chest at the sight. Such cruelty is absolutely repulsive, as is the resigned look in those summer sky eyes.

He takes a step forward, but halts when he hears a voice, low and unsettling, says, “No touching. Get out.”

Turning his head, Louis sees a tall, dark haired man, dressed in a black suit, shoulders stooped, long body resembling the Grim Reaper’s. His eyes are also black, skin sallow, hands spindly like a spider’s legs.

Louis takes one last look at Lestat crouching on the floor, his head dropped again, showing Louis only the crown of his head. A fine tremble can be seen coursing through the prostrate figure.

Once he’s cleared the carnival grounds, Louis goes into the drugstore and uses their payphone to call his friend, Bricktop.

“Williams here,” is the answer after a few rings.

“Bricks,” he replies. “I need your help.”

—

Before his mother, Florence, and brother, Paul, died, Louis had spent several years doing whatever was necessary to keep his once wealthy family, in the lifestyle to which they’d grown accustomed. That had included many questionable business ventures. During one such venture, he’d met Bricktop, and they’d formed a deep, trusting friendship.

Bricks also has a varied skill set, and Louis knows that he can rely on her to help him rescue the werewolf from the disgusting condition he is living in.

She arranges for a group of her girls to go to the carnival and distract the carnies, so that he and Bricks can sneak into the tent. It’s incredibly dark inside, but thankfully the full moon is out, and Louis always has his lighter with him.

Bricktop also has to stifle a gasp when she sees the werewolf on chained up, filthy and bruised. Louis realises with an acrid taste in his mouth that the pale skin is even more bruised than a few days ago, and there are fresh cuts along his back where it looks as if he’s been whipped.

“Jesus,” Bricks whispers as she cautiously approaches.

When she’s close enough, she kneels down reaches for one of the locks, but immediately stops when a low growl sounds. Louis realises that the growl is coming from Lestat, who has his teeth bared.

He doesn’t know if he’ll get his hand bitten off, but he steps forward and tentatively touches the top of the werewolf’s upper arm. Those unusual eyes turn to him, and slowly, the growl stops.

“We’re here to help you,” Louis explains, keeping his voice soft. “To get you out of here.”

Lestat ducks his head, trembling, but he moves into Louis’ touch as Bricktop picks the locks and finally releases him from the manacles. Louis feels a swell of rage as he looks at the state of the skin where the metal has been chafing Lestat’s skin. He tamps the feeling down when he and Bricks help Lestat up, and the man struggles to stand on his own, due to kneeling in the same position for hours on end.

Between the two of them, they manage to get Lestat to Brick’s pick up truck, where she’s lain old quilts along the flatbed. Louis climbs in after him, and pulls one of the quilts over his bare body. He makes to sit up, but Lestat clings to his arm, and so he lies down next to him, the quilt pressed between them, as Bricks drives away.

—

The plantation house that Louis lives in is large and far from town, close to the bayou. His sister, who’d married and moved away several years ago, had tried to persuade him to sell it because it was too large for one person. Louis, however, likes it too much to even contemplate selling. He enjoys sitting outside on the porch, and listen to the sounds of the swamp.

It’s a challenge, but between the two of them, Louis and Bricks manage to gently manoeuvre Lestat out of the back of the truck. He’s still wrapped in the quilt, and as Louis carries him to the house, he realises how light he is, and therefore, terribly thin. The werewolf nuzzles under Louis’ chin, soft ears brushing against his jaw. When they reach the house, Louis’ long time housekeeper, Dolores, who looked after him more than his own mother when he was growing up, is standing on the porch. She arches a grey eyebrow as she looks at him carrying Lestat and Bricktop walking behind them.

“Louis du Lac,” she says, hands on her generous hips. “What have you done?”

“I had to save him,” Louis replies, walking into the house and up the stairs towards the bedrooms. “I couldn’t leave him there.”

Dolores turns to Bricks and asks, “What is he talking about?”

Louis can hear the murmur of their voices as he carries lays Lestat down on the bed in the spare bedroom. Once he’s pulled down the covers, he helps Lestat settle under them, making sure that he’s warm and comfortable. Lestat’s eyes slowly slide shut and he lets out a low rumble as he settles into the mattress and the warmth. Louis turns to leave the room, but is stopped by a big hand grasping his wrist.

He looks down at Lestat, and sees those shifting blue eyes are half lidded as they gaze up at him.

“Don’t go,” his voice is deep, clearly accented. “I do not want to be alone.”

“I just wanted to get you some water,” Louis explains, laying his hand over Lestat’s, where he’s still clasping Louis’ wrist. “You must be very thirsty.”

“Oui,” Lestat admits, but there’s fear in his eyes. “I am afraid that he will come for me.”

It’s clear that Lestat hasn’t been speaking much, a roughness to the deep cadence, and Louis tries to ignore how arousing it is to hear that sensual voice.

“Who? The man I saw in the tent?”

Lestat’s grip on his wrist tightens, and his eyes become bright with tears, “Magnus. He will find me. I know he will. He thinks I belong to him.”

Louis sits down on the bed and strokes Lestat’s pale cheek, “I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you, okay? You’re safe here with me and Bricks and Dolores. We’re gonna look after you. You never have to go back to him again.”

Lestat nuzzles into Louis’ open palm, his breathing calming and evening out, until Louis can tell that he really is fast asleep this time. He takes the opportunity to observe that beautiful face, with the long, thick lashes that are pale at the tip, the small, fine nose, and the almost too wide, pink mouth, which is cracked in places due to a lack of water. Louis can see that once he washes Lestat’s hair, it will be lovely and soft.

He leaves the door to the bedroom open just in case Lestat wakes up again and is still frightened. When he gets downstairs, he can hear Dolores and Bricktop’s voices emanating from the kitchen. They’re sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in front of them both, and a slice of chocolate cake in front of Bricks.

When Louis takes a seat at the table, Dolores places a cup of steaming coffee in front of him, as well as a generous slice of chocolate cake. He hadn’t realised how hungry he is until he starts eating.

“You done a damn foolish thing,” Dolores says in the tone she’s used on him since he was about three years old. “But I agree that you couldn’t leave him there. Looks like he weighs less than a feather. Man who did that to him should be horsewhipped.”

Louis nods as he sips his coffee, then replies, “Lestat says the man’s name is Magnus. He’s terrified of him. I’m gonna give Jonah a call and see what he can find out about him. He’s a real scary honky.”

“You saw him?” Bricks frowns.

“Yeah. Wish I hadn’t. Looked like a goddamn spider in a suit.”

Dolores hums, “Well, that’s enough excitement for one night. I’m to bed. Make sure you lock up.”

Louis nods as the housekeeper leaves the kitchen.

“I got a real bad feeling about this,” Bricktop admits, finishing her slice of chocolate cake. “I mean, where did he get Lestat from? There haven’t been werewolves in America for almost a hundred years.”

“I think he got him from Europe. He’s got an accent,” Louis explains. “Sounds French, and he spoke a little, too.”

Bricks shakes her head, “Makes sense. I’ve heard horror stories about them bringing werewolves and werecats over on ships from Europe. Big trade over there.”

“Well I ain’t letting that fucker get a hold of Lestat again. If he’d stayed there any longer, he would’ve been starved or beaten to death.”

They’re both silent for a long while, then Bricks asks, voice low, disgust clear, “Do you think they… interfered… with him, too?”

Louis digs his nails into his palms, feeling the red of alpha vision threatening at his peripherals due to rage, but he holds it at bay as he says, “Yeah. I think they did.”

They don’t talk again. They just sit there together at the kitchen table, thinking about the werewolf sleeping upstairs, and what may have been done to him.

Chapter Text

The next day, Lestat sleeps well into the late afternoon. At first, Louis is anxious that he’s fallen into some kind of coma, but Dolores dismisses his concerns.

“Sleep is the body’s best medicine,” she explains. “His body is trying to heal itself.”

She is, of course, proven totally right when Lestat wakes up around 5pm, and lets Louis help him slowly drink some water. He can’t overdo it with water or food, because his body will be overwhelmed, but Dolores makes him some basic soup, and Louis feeds it to him.

Afterwards, Lestat goes back to sleep, with Louis dosing off in the chair by the window due to worry and the continued summer heat.

He startles awake, however, when he hears screams and thrashing. Lestat is having a nightmare, begging in French for the pain to stop, promising to be good, and not argue or try to escape anymore. Louis doesn’t want to make things worse, but he can’t think of anything else except climbing onto the bed and gathering Lestat in his arms. He narrowly avoids being elbowed in the face, but the werewolf calms down and, still sleeping, buries his face in the curve where Louis’ neck and shoulder meet. It’s clear that he finds the alpha’s scent calming, and Louis wonders if perhaps Lestat is an omega. He’s unusually large for one, but Louis reminds himself that were creatures are much larger than human alphas and omegas due to them being able to shift.

After a while, he drifts off again, Lestat still desperately clinging to him.

The next time he wakes up, it’s  early morning, the sky blushed with pink and orange, and Lestat is clinging to him, wide mouth slightly open against Louis’ long throat. Despite Lestat still needing to bathe, Louis can feel his cock start to stir at the warmth of Lestat on top of him, and the scent of him, reminiscent of the earth after rain, and fields of lavender. Louis grits his teeth as his dick fills with blood, and his mouth fills with saliva. He can feel his canines wanting to extend, his gums throbbing with the desire to sink them into the meat of Lestat’s shoulder and claim.

Instead, he gently moves Lestat to the side and wraps him in the duvet cover again, so that he can run a bath. He will have to shave Lestat’s face and cut his hair. His various cuts have begun to heal due to actually having enough food and water, but some of them still look rather pink and angry.

Louis closes the bathroom door so that the running water won’t disturb the sleeping were. He adds some oil to the bath to ease Lestat’s bruises and cuts, and gets towels out of the cupboard, along with his cutthroat razor, shaving soap, brush and bowl, as well as some hair scissors. As he turns the water off, the door creaks open, and he turns to see Lestat standing in the doorway, quilt wrapped around himself. It gives Louis the opportunity to realise how tall Lestat is, about an inch or two taller than Louis, who isn’t short himself.

“I ran you a bath,” Louis explains. “You wanna get in?”

Lestat frowns for a moment, and Louis thinks he may have to do more to coax him into the water, but then he drops the duvet and steps into the water. Even still too thin, Lestat is beautiful, with long legs, a supple ass and broad shoulders. Louis reminds himself that he is here to bath the were, not linger on the soft bob of his lovely cock in the bath water. He concentrates on washing Lestat’s hair first. He doesn’t have the right shampoo for his kind of hair, so he uses the unscented soap that he favours for his own body. He’ll get Lestat some shampoo when he can leave the were alone without the latter thinking Louis is abandoning him.

Louis has to wash Lestat’s hair three times to get all the dirt, build up and hints of dried blood out of it. The desire to find and kill Magnus burns inside of him, but he pushes it down so that Lestat won’t scent his anger and get the wrong idea about who it is directed towards.

Once he’s rinsed Lestat’s hair, he can see its lovely natural colour, like sunshine. He can’t resist running his fingers through it, gently massaging the now clean scalp, which makes the were rumble in his chest and lean back into the touch.

Picking the bar of soap up again, Louis holds it out to Lestat, but the man just stares at it for a few moments. Louis huffs out a sigh and works the bar between his hands until it produces a generous amount of suds. He tries to keep his touch almost clinical, but it becomes increasingly difficult as he touches Lestat’s warm skin, the flatness of his belly, the breadth of his shoulders. He takes the scrubbing brush and carefully cleans Lestat’s nails, which are long, a combination of claws and human fingernails. Some are broken, probably from clawing to get away from… Louis takes a deep breath again, and thinks about how he will have to trim and file them.

Finally, he reaches the inside of Lestat’s thighs, which are sprinkled with fine, blonde hairs. Louis can’t help but swallow thickly at how long and thick Lestat’s cock is. It’s buried in a thatch of golden hair that Louis wants to bury his nose in and pull at with his teeth. Sweat begins to pool at the base of Louis’ throat and he knows it’s not just from the heat of the bathroom.

“Here,” he tries to put the soap in Lestat’s hands again. “You need to wash your… uh…”

He trails off, averting his gaze as Lestat continues to look him with those aquamarine eyes, which are trusting, but also still unsurprisingly wary.

Lestat reaches out and takes Louis’ hand in his own, and says, “Show me… s’il te plait…”

Sucking in a breath, Louis allows the were to guide their hands down in the water, with Louis still holding the bar of soap. He forces himself to continue looking at Lestat’s face as he tries to wash inbetween the other man’s legs as quickly as possible. Thankfully, Lestat is looking down, eyebrows pinched together in concentration, pink mouth slightly parted.

“Lift up for me,” Louis has to clear his throat, his voice sounds raspy to his own ears, thick with suppressed arousal.

He doesn’t linger on Lestat’s ass either, but like with washing his dick, he can’t keep it completely detached either, not with Lestat breathing in his ear and gripping Louis’ forearm.

When he’s, blessedly, done, he pulls the plug before helping Lestat out of the bath, and wrapping a towel around him.

“Sit on the toilet for me please,” he instructs, picking up the scissors.

Lestat starts to tremble again, and Louis realises that he’s staring at the scissors in Louis’ hand.

“It’s okay, baby,” Louis doesn’t know where the endearment came from. “I’m just gonna cut your hair. It’ll feel so much better. I promise. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Tentatively, clearly telegraphing his intentions, Louis strokes Lestat’s cheek with just his fingertips, making a soothing noise. He brings the scissors up with the other hand, making sure that Lestat sees them, and then starts to cut the overly long strands away so that they sit on the pale collarbones.

“Does that feel better?” Louis asks, once he’s finished.

Slowly, Lestat nods, then replies, “Lighter. It feels much lighter.”

“I can imagine,” Louis wants to kiss the other man on the forehead, but he resists. “You ever been shaved?”

Lestat presses his lips together and nods again, “Oui. Magnus… Magnus would do it sometimes…”

Those unusual eyes become glassy and Louis lays down the scissors so that he can embrace Lestat, his cheek pressed to Louis’ chest as he sobs softly, big hands gripping Louis’ shirt.

“It’s really okay,” Louis assures after about ten minutes, stroking Lestat’s  hair. “We don’t have to if you don’t wanna. I’ll never do anything that you don’t want to.”

It takes a few more minutes for Lestat to calm down enough to speak, “Non. I want you to. I—I want the memory to be replaced.”

“Alright,” this time Louis doesn’t resist the urge to kiss that golden hair, so soft against his lips, smelling of the soap and the earth.

Reluctantly, Louis pulls away so that he can run a cloth under warm water, and presses it to Lestat’s face. He doesn’t have a lot of hair anywhere on his body, especially for a were-creature. After about five minutes, he removes the warm cloth, and gently smoothes the shaving soap over the strong jawline, high cheekbones and down the long throat.

When he picks up the razor, he says, “You gotta stay still for me, ‘kay? If you don’t like what I’m doing, just tap my thigh. You good?”

Lestat nods, big eyes trained on Louis’ face, as leans forward and slowly, overly slowly in fact, begins to move the blade through the shaving soap. He makes sure that he keeps all of his movements unhurried and gentle, praising Lestat as he goes. Eventually the towel has pooled around Lestat’s lap, and his big hand is lightly gripping Louis’ waist, like an anchor. Louis doesn’t want him to let go.

“You look real handsome,” Louis grins as he wipes Lestat’s face with the towel and checks that he hasn’t missed anything. “Gonna have to be careful around the alphas.”

Suddenly, Lestat’s eyes fill with fear and his body goes rigid. Louis belatedly realises his poor choice of words and cups Lestat’s face out his hands.

“It was a joke, honey,” he soothes, thumbs wiping away the tears that overflow. “I was just playin’. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That was stupid of me. Please believe me, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Lestat wraps his hands around Louis and buries his face in his shirt, snuffling in-between the alphas pecs, clearly scenting him to calm himself down. Louis’ heart clenches as he thinks about how Paul used to do the same thing when seeking comfort.

“That’s it, Angel,” Louis doesn’t bother to suppress the endearments, he can tell that they help soothe the skittish werewolf. “Just breathe for me. Nice and slow.”

When Lestat’s breathing evens out again, Louis says, “I gotta clean your cuts, Les. I don’t want you to get infection or something.”

He guides Lestat up from the toilet, pretending not to notice when the towel is left behind as they walk into the bedroom. Once again making his intentions very clear, he guides Lestat onto his stomach so that he clean the worst cuts on the werewolf’s long back. Earlier, Dolores had left a bottle of antiseptic and cotton wool balls on the side table, which Louis uses to carefully clean Lestat’s wounds. Although he hisses a few times in discomfort, Lestat is mostly quiet. Louis realises that Lestat’s one rib was broken, but has mostly healed. Once again he feels rage building up inside of him, which he has to temper.

Afterwards, he wraps clean bandages around Lestat’s battered torso. Dolores had also put aside one of Louis’ silk pyjama sets for Lestat to wear.

Lestat looks at them dubiously, and moves forward to sniff them as Louis holds them up for the werewolf’s inspection.

“What’s wrong, Les?” he asks, watching Lestat carefully.

“I…,” Lestat swallows, then tries again. “I have not worn clothes in some time…”

Frowning, Louis explains, “These are really soft. They shouldn’t irritate your skin.”

The dubious expression remains, so Louis tries a compromise, “How about just the pants?”

Lestat looks between he and the pants, and then nods jerkily. Louis smiles, genuinely pleased, and helps Lestat into them, one of those big warm hands resting on Louis’ shoulder. When Lestat climbs back into bed, his lids droop and he yawns.

“Yeah. I think it’s time for you to sleep,” Louis observes, pulling the covers up so that that tempting chest is no longer exposed. “I’ll do your nails tomorrow.”

“Louis,” Lestat looks soft and vulnerable, his hair fanned out on the pillow, blue eyes heavy lidded. “Please sleep with me.”

For a moment, Louis’ brain screeches to a halt, but then it seems to restart and decipher the true meaning of Lestat’s words.

“Sure,” Louis nods, climbing onto the bed and under the covers.

Lestat turns over so that Louis is the big spoon, and his warm back is pressed against Louis’ front. He wills his cock to behave as Lestat intertwines their fingers and settles their hands over his sternum.

After a few minutes, the werewolf’s breathing evens out, and he is clearly asleep. Louis just observes the different golden threads in that thick, curly hair, and listens to the steady beating of Lestat’s heart.

It’s an utter cliché, but Louis has never fallen for someone this hard or fast. He and Jonah, an omega, had fooled around in school, but it had fizzled out when Jonah decided to become a career soldier. Louis had tried to pursue something with Lily, a beautiful beta girl, but there’d been no spark, and they’d remained only friends. There’d also been Armand, who he’d definitely been sexually compatible with, but it become abundantly clear that he and Armand were ill suited for a long term commitment. The omega was far better off with Daniel, a much older alpha, who disparaged Armand’s dramatics and penchant for heavily varnishing the truth when it suited him.

Thinking of Daniel, Louis knows he should contact him. Although he is retired, he’d worked as a journalist for years. He’d been involved in breaking numerous criminal enterprises, including the mafia’s illegal omega prostitution ring in New York. Louis has a good feeling that Daniel will be able to find out about the ominous figure who Louis can still see standing in the circus tent, telling him to get out as Lestat shivered in terror:

Magnus .