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Dusk in New Orleans, the streets start to get louder and the street lamps are lit, filling Lestat’s room with a dull yellow glow.
It has never been her favourite time of day. Too early to get out of her coffin, too late to go back to sleep. Just right to lay still in the shrinking light and think. Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts in her head, sounds of people on the street laughing and screaming, their minds louder than hers but still not loud enough to matter.
But now there’s her. She lies next to her, her human pulse fluttering in her throat and blood coursing through her veins. Lestat ghosts her finger over Louis’ lips, revelling in the warmth of the breath that graces her skin. She smells like Lestat’s salvation. Her blood calls to her, dancing under her cinnamon skin, begging to be consumed. Lestat’s mouth parts, skirts over Louis’ neck.
She can’t. She can’t take from her, not like this at least. But it is dizzying, the scent. It consumes her, consumes Lestat, fills the room. Whenever Louis is away, the townhouse is malodorous, unbearable. No blood can even try to compare.
Lestat follows the scent, nosing her way down Louis’ neck, pressing a kiss to the slight swell of her breasts. She stops, licking over the skin until she feels her lover begin to wake under her, breathes in the newer scent of arousal.
“Lestat…” Her voice is rough with sleep and lust. Lestat shivers, leaving a final kiss on her chest and then moving downwards. She drags her mouth down to the only piece of offending cloth remaining on Louis’ body, a pair of thin white undergarments. The scent is overwhelming now and Lestat feels almost sick with it. She presses her nose up against Louis’ core with only the cotton as a barrier, inhaling. It hits her so suddenly, the realisation, that her vision goes black. Her nose and mouth are red and so is Louis’ underwear, just a little bit.
“Oh, fuck.” Louis sighs. “I lost track of the date.”
“Tu sens si bon, ma fleur.” Lestat breathes, unable to comprehend the tone of her voice. Her head pounds with desire. “Let me have you.”
“But…” Louis wrinkles her nose. “I guess you’d like that.”
Like. Lestat would laugh if her throat wasn’t busy begging for Louis’ blood to lubricate its walls.
When Louis says nothing else, Lestat pulls her underwear off in such a frenzy that it catches on her nails and tears, the entire thing unravelling.
“Oops.” Lestat says unapologetically.
“Now how the hell am I supposed to get home?” Louis grumbles. “Tore up my skirt, tore up my damn bloomers, you heathen.”
Lestat presses her dull teeth against the plump flesh surrounding Louis’ clitoris. “Your heathen.” She says, ignoring her lover’s derisive laugh.
She can taste the blood on her teeth, a faint whisper of it. She can’t wait any longer. She licks a long stripe against Louis’ folds, nearly inhaling the blood. It travels down her throat, courses through her own veins now. She’s inside of Lestat, her life is their life, their life is one. Lestat moans into Louis, frantically licking at every drop of blood that she can get. She rocks against the cushioned base of the coffin, her own pleasure a distant goal. Her world is Louis right now, Louis and her blood and her skin and her scent. Louis and the way she moans above Lestat, her thighs trembling. Lestat doesn’t know how long she stays there, lapping up the blood. Louis has already come one, and then once more, but Lestat isn’t ready to leave. Her chest burns and her fangs scrape against Louis’ skin but she is careful to keep them from nicking her. It’s different, it’s holy. Blood with no sacrifice, blood with no fear. It tastes like salvation going down her throat. She descends into madness with lust and greed but Louis’ blood takes that, takes all of it and drips pure and unblemished down the sides of her mouth and into her sinful body, cleansing.
“That’s enough, now.” Comes the dreaded call, Louis pushing gently at Lestat’s shoulders. She takes one last lick, reluctantly withdrawing.
“You look insane.” Louis laughs. Lestat goes in for a kiss and Louis swerves, wrinkling her nose. “Absolutely not, ma soleil.” But she places a kiss to the inside of Lestat’s wrist, lacing their hands together. Her light, her dark, her everything. Lestat squeezes her hands softly. She experiences a rare moment of regret about her vampirism, a fleeting moment spent wishing she were human so Louis could experience the same intense pleasure from her. But she feels Louis’ heartbeat against her own chest and thanks every deity she has ever been taught to believe in that one day she will get to experience her hand in Louis’ forever.