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The first thing Lestat feels when he comes-to from his night terror is a mouth on his own. He lazily reaches up to run his fingers through Nicki’s untied hair, kissing him back with a soft moan. His throat hurts, which is the first sign that something isn’t quite right. He silently wonders if he was screaming in his sleep, as he often does when his nightmares get too vivid. He melts into the contact, trying to push the thoughts of his bad dream out of his mind, content to lie here half-asleep and let Nicki kiss and touch him, running his delicate hand up the front of Lestat’s linen shirt. Nicki wakes him up this way frequently, on his good days. Nothing soothes Lestat’s bad mornings like Nicki’s sweet, hot mouth. He idly wonders if Nicki will suck his cock.
Lestat tilts his head back into the pillow—not a pillow—something hard and unforgiving. Lestat grumbles and squeezes his eyes shut tighter when Nicki starts mouthing at his neck. There isn’t the usual scrape of his stubble and Nicki’s hair feels all wrong in Lestat’s fingers. Lestat asks himself, am I still dreaming?
Nicolas chuckles above him, but no, Nicki does not laugh like that. Cruel, sinister. Repugnant.
Lestat’s stomach churns, a painful twist in his guts. Suddenly, he can feel a sharp pain in his back, ankles and his fingers. Is this a dream within a dream!?
Nicki—not Nicki—is back on his mouth, kissing him. His lips taste foul and nothing like the tacky morning wine Lestat usually tastes on his sweet Nicki's lips. He jerks his head to the side with a distressed whine, forcing strangled words out of his cracked lips—“Nuh-nn-Nick?” When he finally, nervously, opens his eyes, he is not met with Nicolas. Instead, he is met with the hungry eyes of the creature from his nightmare, only he’s not a nightmare at all.
The Vampire Magnus is tangibly hovering above him, although Lestat does not yet know his name. The creature is pale—blotchy—similar to how Lestat looks after a long night at Renaud’s, his makeup cracked and sweated through. Its cruel smile twists up at the recognition and Lestat’s memories come to him like a slap to the face. This thing, this wretched, evil thing had been following him for some time and Nicki did not believe him—had not entertained Lestat’s paranoid ramblings.
Lestat’s breath is coming out in short, panicked exhales. He had been sleeping before he was dragged through their window and taken here, wherever here is. He fought the whole way, exhausted by the time the creature, surely not human, had thrown him to the cold floor of the tower. How long it had been since he was thrown there, Lestat wasn’t sure.
“No, dear Lelio. I am not your mortal lover, my young one. I have watched the two of you and I know what it is that you desire.” Magnus touches the slight swell of his erection overtop of his linen underdrawers.
His cock showed interest when he thought it was Nicki who was kissing him, now quickly depleting once the ghastly things fingers knead into his flesh.
The touch is a brief shock to his system, his hands flying out of their own volition as if puppeteered. “N-no, damn you! No!” Lestat tries to swat at him, fists colliding with its gangly arms. The strength of the beast frightens and confuses him, and he wonders how something so much weaker looking than himself can have him pinned to the floor so easily.
The punches do nothing to deter Magnus as he growls and undoes the two buttons on the front of Lestat’s drawers while he kicks and squirms. Magnus presses one hand against Lestat's throat, holding him in pace as he slips his fingers into his linens. Lestat cries out and desperately claws at the pale hand, attempting to pry it off.
Magnus's hand travels further down, sliding his cold, clammy fingers over the meaty flesh of his inner thigh, grazing over the fine blond hairs dusting his skin. The fingers probe under his testicles and Lestat thrashes valiantly around, trying to throw him off. His head feels fuzzy, his mind slowly blurring at the edges along with his vision as the fingers on his throat squeeze tightly. He thinks he is going to die and for a moment he welcomes it, his face warm and purpling, his eyes blurrily staring at the ceiling. Wood rafters. He thinks back to the time before Paris when he and Nicki stumbled upon a dilapidated church and how they desecrated the building with their boyish fumbling, hands down each other’s breeches, not dissimilar to how Magnus fondles him now.
There is stained glass in the tower walls, and as his vision fades out and the prodding between his legs evaporates into nothingness, he absently wonders if it used to be a place of worship, was this a holy place? There is nothing holy here anymore, if there ever was. He wonders if there is heaven and hell. Wonders if he would go to hell for his desires and if this is some cruel trick God is playing on him for loving another man, but no, that sounds like something Nicolas would’ve said in the early days of their coupling. No, no. Nicki.
Magnus keeps his hand firmly on Lestat's throat until he passes out.
When Lestat awakens there are two fingers inside of him.
The pain in his throat and backside is astounding, and all Lestat can do at first is gasp and gasp and then he is releasing a low, stretched moan of pure horror.
He feels as if his back is glued to the mildewy floor as those slender, yet rough fingers thrust past his entrance. He has no idea how long he’s been out of it with those spindly fingers violating him, marking his innermost flesh with its filthy, razor-sharp claws. “No, please,” Lestat pleads, trying to move his hips and push away the hand. His throat is raw and dry and he’s so thirsty that he longs for death all over again. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He tries to distract himself with his thirst because he cannot accept what he feels below.
He is uncomfortably wet where the fingers intrude, nothing like the oil he uses with Nicolas.
When a third finger breaches him he’s almost grateful for the wounds the beast has gifted him, easing the penetration with his own blood. His body vainly resists the intrusion, clamping down and tensing up. Magnus thrusts his finger inside violently, bypassing the resistance without any real effort. Hopeless tears slide down Lestat’s temples into his sweaty, golden hair.
Lestat’s throat clicks and he tries to speak, moving his jaw side to side along with his head as he slowly shakes it, but nothing comes. God, don’t fail me now. Please don’t fail me now, he pleads silently. He cannot speak. Of course in his most shameful moment, he cannot speak.
Mistaking Lestat pleading for his voice as a call to God, Magnus twists his fingers cruelly, his nails like knives, ripping at Lestat’s anal cavity.
Lestat screams so loud it echoes throughout the rotting tower.
Its voice is in his head, telling him, scream all you want, dear. No one will hear you except for Magnus.
After Lestat's screaming has abandoned him just like his words, he stares at the rafter in the ceiling and gasps for air in quiet huh-huh-huh’s. He barely registers the fourth finger inserted inside him, the pain all-consuming and the fear binding him to the floor. He cannot blink, he cannot move. The shock that freezes his body is not unlike the debilitating emotions he had on the days after he killed the wolves in Auvergne.
Desperate for some semblance of comfort, he recalls those days. Home, his chest bloody and throbbing and his dying mother, who's comfort he longed for now more than ever. He remembers her beautifully cruel fingers on that awful day and how she slid them inside the deep gash on his upper thigh where a wolf’s claw shredded through the fabric covering him, and how the pain of her fingers curling inside felt so intimate. He nearly feels blissful when he thinks about how he watched in confusion when his mother slipped her hand further up his leg until it was completely invisible inside his breeches. If he thinks desperately enough, he can imagine she is the one touching him now, how her delicate, boney fingers and her large breasts shook as she stroked his cock until he was aching, making him come despite his silent begging of her to stop, his wet eyes looking up at her wide as if asking her, “Mother, why?”
He feels sick for even comparing the two events, a nausea simmering low in his belly as Magnus stretches him open.
Auvergne, home, Mother, Nicolas. Nicki-Nicki-Nicki. Sweet, smiling Nicki with his sweet, soaring music.
He was sleeping next to Nicki before he was taken. They fucked before they fell asleep, Nicolas pressing soft apologies to his lips after Lestat had cried and shouted in frustration with Nicki looking up at him as if he were going mad as he babbled on and on about a white face in the crowd and a beckoning voice inside his head.
Nicki still did not believe him when they made love, but the pleasure from his lips and cock pacified Lestat enough to fall asleep.
“Enough!” Magnus yells as his fingers exit Lestat quickly and slip out of the front of his drawers.
“You are mine now, my little one, and you will enjoy this.”
Lestat is turned onto his front, flat on his stomach, and he is silently grateful again for not having to see its face anymore. It’s only now that Lestat becomes aware of the smell. A rancid, decaying scent permeating the room as Magnus crawls over his back. Blood, death, waste; he can smell it all at once and he gags, drool slipping from his open mouth onto the floor. His stomach contents feel as if they're bubbling up, waiting to spill over like a boiling stew.
In a humorless way, he’s grateful to Nicolas in this moment too as the cold, lifeless needle-tip of Magnus's manhood–if you could even call a beast like It a man–-enters him.
Nicolas' thick prick trained him well and he imagines this would be much worse if he’d never been taken by a man. To Lestat’s horror he hears his own loud laughter ring through his ears, completely devoid of all mirth.
He is going to die here, he thinks manically. He will die with this monster's cock buried inside of him. He laughs again, trailing off into sobs. He’s never understood why he laughs in such inappropriate times and for a moment he's terrified of the possibility that he laughs because he enjoys it, just like the creature said he would. But how can he enjoy this? Blood, pain, sweat. He sobs hysterically as Magnus growls above him, hands wrapping around his trembling waist.
He will never marry, never have a child. He will die in obscurity. Nicolas will never know what happened to him. Oh, Christ, Nicki, Lestat’s sorrow consumes him as if he's been dragged under water. If he survived, how would he face his lover again? How could they ever make love again now that Lestat has been broken? His sobs come out louder and more desperate. Part of him wishes to die, but he hasn’t fully given up yet, he can’t.
His last coherent thought as the demon pushes inside is: I hope that Nicki can forgive me.
“My lovely wolfkiller,” it moans as it sinks its cock inside, “soft, warm wolfkiller.”
Lestat wants to kill it, break it apart with his fists as he did with a blue bird when he was a small, curious child. He broke its wings, watched it twitch in the palm of his tiny hands as it died in pain. He cried for hours over what he’d done, not truly understanding death at the time, and cried more as his father beat him unconscious with a boat oar. He imagines his assailant as the little blue bird, helpless and small with its arms broken. Another mirthless laugh erupts from his throat, but there is hardly any fight in him left as exhaustion takes over. The pain is unreal, the cock that presses against his torn walls. He and Nicki had been rough before, but never like this. He feels wetter, the blood running down his perineum to his limp cock. The smell of his own blood and the stale reek of death in the tower that he cannot see churns his insides, another wave of nausea threatening to crawl up his throat. The terror racks through him again and in a last-ditch effort to fight back, he twists his body, Magnus's stained prick sliding out of him. He beats at the gaunt creature, kicks and punches and screams, “I’ll fucking kill you!” His throat is raw from the screaming. His knuckles are raw too, bloody and swollen. Half of his fingernails have been torn and broken from scratching at the floors, and he looks at them in horror, his hands shaking violently. He doesn’t remember feeling any pain in his hands. He's frozen again in fear, blinking at his hands rapidly. The nausea builds, builds, builds and climbs. Magnus is laughing at him, he realizes far too late. He thought his ears were ringing again.
“You think you can kill Magnus like you did the wolves, my Lelio?” More laughter that echoes through the rotten walls. Lestat screams, body kicking into motion again. He uses his strong legs to kick at the floor, propelling himself away from it. He crawls backwards on his sore elbows, wood splinters catching and tearing at his clothes.
Magnus pins him down again with his legs and swings his fist into Lestat’s face. Lestat tries to swerve away from the punch, the creature's white knuckles colliding sharply with his cheekbone. The pain is blinding, his vision going white. He can feel the blood inside his face, the deep throbbing of his muscles. He knows the bone has been cracked. He suffered enough fractures at the hands of his brothers to know this for certain.
He turns, body half contorted under Magnus’s hips as he leans over on his hands, vomiting blood and bile onto the wooden floor. His stomach was already horribly empty, and now he feels sicker than before. The smell. The smell alone makes him retch again, a painful dry heave. The fracture in his cheek is agonizing, worse than the pain in his rear. Magnus cackles again, rising off him as if floating and then Lestat is being dragged away from his bile by his ankles. In his mind he sees himself dragged away from Nicolas’s sleeping from on their bed.
Lestat is paralyzed with fear again. He can barely see, his vision slowly coming back to him but very blurry, even bloody in one eye. He tries to scream but nothing comes out. He can feel the creature's claws sink into the tendons of his ankle. He can’t fight, can’t scratch, can’t scream. He feels the most helpless he’s felt all night. He can’t feel the intrusion when Magnus is on his back again, only the pressure of the creature's weight. Magnus speaks to him telepathically, Relax, Lelio. You will feel better if you let me do this. I will make love to you, Lelio, as your lover does.
Its thrusts are slow and gentle now, a sickening glide from the blood, too slick—Lestat gags again.
Lestat’s body does relax, limp from pain and exhaustion. The agony from the cracked bone in his face radiates, causing his head to swim and more blood to swell in his mouth. It's a near-pleasant distraction until it is reaching around him and pushing inside the front of his linen drawers, dirty fingers wrapping around his flaccid penis. It tugs on his cock, and Lestat cracks out a broken, “No!” There is blood on his lips and he licks it off, desperate for something to help with the insatiable thirst he feels.
Suddenly, the devil is latching onto his slightly exposed shoulder like a mother's teat. Lestat stares wide eyed at the floor in front of him, unblinking. His vision is clearer now but still fuzzy around the edges. Despite his fears, this is not the night he will die, yet Lestat silently prays for death anyway. He prays to a God he isn’t sure he believes in anymore to take him from this—relieve him of this hell. He longs for an easeful death.
The euphoria that rattles through his bones as Magnus drinks from him is as pleasurable as it is horrific. His body feels overly warm, despite the draining of his blood. As he grows weaker, he envisions Nicki sound asleep back at their home, his eyelids sweetly twitching as he dreams. There were so many nights Lestat watched him sleep for hours, admiring his peaceful, masculine features as he allowed his tormented mind to rest. Lestat hopes Nicki is still dreaming and ignorant to what is happening far away from him.
Another paralyzing thought enters his mind at the idea: what if it comes for Nicki next?
Magnus pulls off him and laughs cruelly. “I will not touch your putrid lover!”
Putrid, that’s a funny word, Lestat thinks in his mind-fog. Magnus is tugging on his cock again and to Lestat’s horror, it feels good this time.
His cock is growing stiff at the pawing movements; he can't believe it!
Magnus bites his own tongue and licks over the wound in Lestat's shoulder over and over like a bitch licking its newborn pup.
Lestat feels as if he is not in his own body anymore, rather sitting in the corner watching someone else be sodomized and licked upon.
Lestat had seen rape in the streets back in Auvergne and in an alleyway in Paris. He felt cowardly at the time, now feeling as if this is some sort of divine punishment or karma for ignoring what he'd witnessed.
The hand on his penis is warmer now from drinking his blood, and for a moment when he closes his eyes, he can imagine it’s Nicolas hand now.
His darling Nicolas with his rough, string-bitten fingers and his nervously chewed up nails. Lestat nearly smiles at this delusion, the warmth of it enrapturing him.
Nicolas with his manic smiles and his dark, wild eyes as he played his violin for Lestat... Lestat cannot die, he cannot die without hearing him play one last time.
The hand grips his cock tighter and Lestat grinds his hips into it, gasping.
He thinks about all the nights where Nicolas’ big cock split through Lestat as they drunkenly laughed together.
As his fingers weakly scratch at the floor, he imagines clutching Nicki’s long, dark hair in his hands. Nicolas. Nicki.
Lestat is orgasming before he can comprehend what’s happening, the spidery fingers on his prick jerking him quickly as the cock inside him fucks into him rougher.
“Oh, my beautiful wolfkiller. I knew you wanted this. My love, my wolfkiller...”
Bile rises to Lestat’s throat again. He tries to swallow it down, coughs and coughs. Magnus growls and then his hand is on Lestat’s mouth, two slick fingers pressing into the inside of his cheek. Lestat bites down on his fingers and Magnus howls, briefly stunned by Lestat managing to actually inflict hurt upon him.
Its cock is abruptly ripped out of him, dripping with Lestat’s blood and its own red-tinted ejaculate.
Lestat is shaking, curling in on himself as a child would.
Magnus grabs the back of Lestat’s hair with his now bloody fingers, and he shoves Lestat’s face into the floor once, twice, smashing his nose into the damp wood.
Lestat feels the bridge of his nose crack, matching his now swollen cheek.
The fresh pain comes as a relief, and the last thing Lestat is aware of before he blacks out again is the feeling of the creature's bloody hand on his buttocks, spreading his cheeks apart to admire its wreckage.