Lebreau is nothing like Vanille, and really, in the end, that's why Fang decides to take a break on her search and follow the other girl home. If anything, Lebreau is a lot like herself- all cocky smiles and calloused palms, voice ever so slightly arrogant and self assured. If the other girl had maybe spoken with a different accent, Fang thinks it would be like looking into a mirror. She doesn't know if that makes her vaguely narcissistic, but figures if she is hung up on herself, it's probably a one time thing considering how hard she'd fallen for Vanille.
Lebreau's louder than Vanille ever was, more forward, because they aren't even properly out the door before the girl's got a fistful of black fabric, reeling Fang in for a kiss. The crowd churns around them, thick as molasses, and Fang fights down a wave of claustrophobia that threatens to drown her. She tries to focus on the girl's lips, the way they slide slickly sweet against hers, tries not to think that in a crowd this size, her chances of escape are depressingly low. A couple feet to their left, a child yells out, clapping chubby little hands in delight and saying "Look mommy, look!" in a tone that makes Fang want to flinch away. Above them, the sky explodes into color and neither of them really notice.
Lebreau grins against her lips, hands roaming, purposeful as they skim across the bare skin of her belly and down, lower and lower-
Fang hisses when that questing hand drops too far, knuckles grazing against her through the thin fabric of her sari and it's good, wonderful pressure, but this really isn't the place.
Lebreau giggles when Fang finally manages to fight off her advances, and she thinks that maybe she'd had too much to drink, because it really shouldn't have taken that long to wrestle the hands of a normal human away from her. Finally, Lebreau throws up her hands, expression amused and promising- it makes Fang want to say fuck the crowds. Her eyes are searing and dark and fuck, but she just wants to press the girl back against the table- wants to drop to her knees and tongue the girl open until she's a whimpering, writhing mess. She wants to slip her fingers inside, wants to fuck her til' that cocky smirk has fallen away.
She doesn't remember much of the walk back to Lebreau's place. She can vaguely recall drunken fumblings, the texture of brick against her back when the other girl had pressed up against her, the sea-salt breeze teasing her hair into tangles and how Lebreau had just grinned, sliding her hands into Fang's hair and tugging her down for another kiss.
What she does remember is stumbling into the girl's apartment. She remembers how they'd tripped over something on the way to the bedroom and ended up flat on the living room floor, front door still open just the slightest, not enough to be a problem, but enough for someone walking by to get an eyeful.
Neither of them had particularly cared much.
Lebreau is louder than Vanille. Her touches are bolder. There's none of Vanille's soft affection, no happy kisses or purred endearments, just whimpers and groans. She curses when trying to get Fang out of her sari, and finally Fang has to hike it up over her hips, tugging and pushing until it's tangled around her waist. It's not even half way up before the girl's tongue is on her, and she has to clench her hands into the carpet so she doesn't get her hands into that pretty hair.
And fuck, Lebreau is ridiculously good at this. Her tongue is in all the right places at exactly the right time, fingers doing awful, wicked things and Fang's coming before she knows what's happening. She groans and thrashes, and yes, she is drunk because she threads her fingers into dark hair and tugs the girl even closer. To her credit, Lebreau goes along with it, her only response a muffled giggle. She keeps going, licks her way in and out of Fang, fucking her with tongue and fingers all through the aftershocks and right into another.
She's breathless with pleasure, whimpering, hips bucking because even though Lebreau has pulled away; her mouth, chin, cheeks filthy wet, positively dripping, her fingers are still working at Fang's clit. She's pushing and pushing to the point that Fang's riding that thin line where her brain's nearly confused the pleasure with pain. She's hazy with it, the alcohol making everything shimmer-bright, so she doesn't even notice- doesn't even realize until Lebreau is pushing into her, straps tight around her narrow waist and dear god, where the fuck had she gotten that?
Lebreau fucks her right through her third orgasm and into her fourth and as much as Fang loves Vanille, she has never, ever had sex this amazing.
Afterwards, when they're lying sated and sleepy, carpet burn itching it's way up Fang's back, Lebreau snuggles close to her side- warm and affectionate and right there, Fang can see the similarity that she'd overlooked before.
Maybe this girl is a bit more like Vanille than Fang had previously thought.