do the people (you here on your phone rn) want a loustat hate sex oneshot continuing the scene where louis stabs lestat in antoinette’s house? bc icekingniceking (me here writing this post rn) is willing to write it
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 : gore, brief depictions of NSFW, religious trauma, & catholic guilt.
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 3.6k
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 : lestat ( @ofthineguilt ), helen (original character made for one shot)
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀caption credits : colette on taratellr
⠀ ⠀ ⠀
⠀ ⠀ ⠀
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ݁ . ̔ ⚖︎ ଼ :･ﾟ 𝖠𝖣𝖬𝖨𝖭 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖤.
this is a one shot that i started a long time ago but finally got the fire under my ass to start. louis, beloved and failed fledgling, doesn't like to drink from humans - so what if lestat is the meal instead? of course, lestat discourages this, yet... there is nothing like sharing the blood, is there?
this one shot focuses more on the intimacy of this sharing, but it also involves some of louis' guilt towards being a vampire, which i have always found an interesting and layered thing, so enjoy! i have placed it under keep reading because the formatting on part alone this is egregious enough.
also thank you to my beautiful and wonderful nova, who gave me lestat help with his lines/wrote a good portion of them for me - i am cannot write for him and she is literally THEEE lestat of all time.
COLOR GUIDE FOR THOUGHTS: LOUIS (GREEN), LESTAT (BLUE), VICTIM (PURPLE)
AMBIANCE SETTER: A Gente Acaba (Vento Em Rosa) by Alabaster DePlume
With each pull of ichor came a new thought, a memory surfacing to ease the pain.
His wife, their baby that would be born soon, the company he worked at to make ends meet for them. Their space in a boarding house that was so small that they owned nothing for themselves, save a few changes of clothes and his mother's cracking wash basin.
A photo on the wall of her, Helen was her name, in a wedding gown, hair stacked high with a long, flowing veil and a hat on top of it; the dress was from an older time, swallowing her in some places. It had been borrowed, once again, from his mother, who was now buried in a shallow, unmarked grave, for he had no money to do her death justice.
They were supposed to move in a few days, with these meager belongings, to land they would harvest for mere pennies, in hopes that it would be better -
The more he drank, the more human he felt. And the more human he felt… the more repulsive the blood became, for what human drank blood? What human would eat another human?
His prey lay there gasping within his strong arms, waiting for death to come and fly its soul to the next plane of existence, ready for the body to be left somewhere to at least be found, for then the wife would at least know what happened.
Helen wouldn’t have anyone to ask where he was. Helen didn’t know about the small jar under the floorboards for their trip. Helen didn’t know he had a dollar and twelve cents in his pocket from the last week of work he’d been able to find.
Louis stopped himself, less than halfway through the supply that the body could hold, his lower lip curled in distress, crimson tears gathering at the waterline. He was grieving for a gentleman he didn’t know, in thick, gurgling sobs from the blood that still remained in his throat.
Would that have been him, if he was human, and Lestat was the one that waited for him at the other end of town? Would his last thoughts be spent on him, hoping his body would be set somewhere to be found, just so Lestat would know the reason he didn’t come home?
Fangs tucked themselves back into his gums, pulling himself back to see the man cradled in his arms. It did not matter that he, this nameless being, was taller than him, only that the figure was small and crumpled, like a child.
Louis’ hand moved to touch the cheek of the mortal, still clinging to warmth, fighting for breath as autumn eyes met verdant, monstrous ones.
Even now, as he looked back at it, the wheezing and ragged breaths leaving the body, he could not spare it an ounce of true pity. He would pretend to, just as he would pretend it was not the weight of his own taken mortality that rested upon his soul.
His twelve-hundreth soul, and all he could spare was, I hate myself. I hate what he made me.
Without further adieu, he snapped the neck between his strong, inhuman fingers, blood tears still present but never falling. And as he did with each of his victims, he stored them away and forgot about them, or tried to, consumed by the self loathing enough to drive himself home in his green, decadent car.
With each block that passed, he picked flesh and blood from his gums, spitting it out upon the cobblestones and coming that much closer to normalcy, or however normal this home containing two immortals could be.
Was that what he chased after with such fervor, or was it only that he knew he should be guilty for what he’d done?
Just as it had been in the confessional box, begging for forgiveness for sins he would commit again, further shackled in permanent and unrelenting exile.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, grievously sinned, the prayer repeated in his head with the shutting of the car door, while he entered the townhouse, when he found himself staring at his coffin lined with green satin and an onyx casing.
Louis ducked his head, slipping through the opened window with grace, foot touching the balcony in their courtyard. There, he found his lover, his murderer, his maker. The man who had been the same one to take it away was the one to fill him back up again.
His fingers clasped onto the ring finger, finding the indentions there, not quite so faded and light as the bite mark at his clavicle, but still a bite of love.
Their eyes met, and it was quite obvious what question was going to leave his husband’s mouth, yet it was still asked anyway: “How was hunting?”
Awful. Don't make me do it again. Don't make me drink in more memories that ain't mine.
He pivoted his answer before his expression could give himself away, his pupils fully blown, the green in them nearly faded. “I'm still hungry.” There was no lie there, he was still hungry, starving, actually, albeit very slowly.
He took a few steps forward, eyes running appreciatively over the figure illuminated by the lights of New Orleans.
Somehow, the blond hair had become golden, the cobalt blue eyes shining amethyst from the glow of Edison bulbs around them. Lestat, in an unbuttoned vest, relaxed tie, and propped up feet, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But hadn't he always been?
He was the only man to make Louis realize that no rosary, no Bible, no amount of fear could save him from the love, the obsession, the addiction.
And there the immortal sat, owning the night, owning him, without second thought to anything but the cigarette between two pale fingers.
“There is enough blood in New Orleans to satiate you, mon cher.” While the voice was sweet, there was a chipped end to it, firm but still loving. The same patience that had been given the first year had not run to the third year.
But each and every one of them were truly no different than the tractor salesman.
Louis moved forward a few more steps, his hand moving to run along the wiry muscle of his lover's arm, purposefully placing pressure upon the third digit along with his touch, his scarred ring finger serving to entice the Frenchman. And with the glance to that finger, he knew he would be given what he longed for. “Don't want the taste of them.”
A large hand moved to grab at his waist, pulling him in, the action brazen for both of them - neither of them seemed to care. He leaned in close to the sculpted cheek, breath dancing across the jawline as he tilted his head. A soft but shallow sigh sent the hand at his waist exploring, the corners of his mouth rising.
“Les, I'm hungry.” There was a shift in tone before he was pulled even closer, an invitation that he accepted without question, sliding into the lap of his lover, tossing an arm over the shoulders.
Lestat's nose pressed to his own throat now, lips hovering. “And what are you hungry for?” A hand slipped down to toy with the locket upon his vest, in plain view but with no one to see it but themselves.
“You, sweeth'art, you.”
Porcelain skated across his cheek before two fingers tilted his chin upward, their lips catching in a warmth and sweet embrace, a soft sigh leaving his own mouth as his body was held bruisingly so. He could never have known how truly brittle he would be under Lestat’s powerful hands, with that ancient blood within him, and yet… he already knew.
He kissed his husband that much harder, tongue sliding across the full lower lip until they parted, his tongue slipping inside and swirling within the beautiful mouth. He could feel how heavy his lover was already breathing against his tongue, eyelashes fluttering from both of them as they melted into one another.
And the sounds of his beloved New Orleans melted away entirely, leaving only the sound of themselves within it, their heaving breaths and the fumbling of hands across clothes as his hands already pulled at the red tie and pointed, wing collar around his neck. Soft whispers of chéri, and please, sweeth’art, as his nimble fingers quickly made work of the buttons along the cream colored shirt.
Louis pulled back from the intoxicating touch, pupils blown wide, lips swollen as he met the lilac gaze, those eyes that tore over him greedily as he pulled the shirt further open. Both of their mouths were agape, rushed breaths still shooting right into their lungs as they stared at one another, lithe hands moving to unbutton his own shirt; they would share in this tonight, as they so often did, drinking in each other until morning came.
“Les,” he barely managed to softly whine before he was being kissed again, a soft hum leaving him as he gently nudged with his nose against the smooth cheek, immortality’s kiss leaving his beloved clean shaven for life.
Claws brushed over his chest, red marks rising to the surface, just shy of cutting into his flesh, the restraint of the elder vampire practiced far more than his own. His teeth sank into the lower lip, cutting right through and gaining the first gush of crimson delight, his body shivering as the haze began to fall over them.
Lestat's hand pulled his body closer by the belt loop, the free hand grasping at the nape of his neck, pulling him back. His darkened lips, smeared with life itself, were more beautiful than he’d seen them in days. “You…” another pause for a heavy breath, “you’ve been skipping meals.” A hiss as the fledgling dove forward and worked a dark mark of love onto the neck, “It will have to come to an end, mon cher, as much as I adore your hunger for me, I cannot provide for eternity.”
Louis scoffed in return, his mouth opening wider to allow his tongue to travel the length of the blood vessel, only pausing to speak. “That so? You gon’ push me away?” And as his tongue returned, a heavy sigh left his mouth, vibrating right against the pale throat.
Lestat's hand tightened over his neck as long fangs descended, double ridged at the edges, ready to tear into him at a moment’s notice.
“Thought so,” he murmured with a smile, peppering kisses as he trained closer and closer to the vein he favored, fangs descending in equal length, skin humming with warmth. They grazed over the skin and earned him a hiss, claws now sinking in, their hearts beating in that beautiful sync they had shared since their first meeting.
Drink all you can hold murmured with tenderness, maker to fledgling, lover to lover.
With a slight nudge and a head tilt, his jaw opened wide, then snapped over the threshold of porcelain, incisors sinking in and nestling so deeply that they might as well have become one with the rest of the body.
A roar of blood, ever sharpened in his immortal body, still pounded like a drum, a huge and overwhelming drum, the joining of themselves all too present within his ears and veins; it was as if the Dark Gift were being fed to him again, on the altar, wedded and given in exchange for eternity.
Love and desire intertwined, throbbing within both of them, demanding to be heard and fed, just as he was now, the need hitting in wave after wave, hips rolling against the body beneath him, sighs rising in the night sky.
This was the ecstasy he was meant to find in the blood, this was the euphoria he could not hold within himself without Lestat.
Fingertips pressed to the scar at his collarbones, coaxing a soft moan from him as his pull turned greedy, head bobbing slightly as he drank and drank and drank. How that ichor sang to him, how it cried out to him and whispered, you need only me.
And it was true, Louis knew it to be, that he could stay this way always, humming with life and never having to take another soul so long as his maker arranged dinner for two.
His softened, heat-combed hair rebelled against the styling, curls popping up and sticking out in different directions, still elegant and beautiful, but untamed in ways he’d always forced them to be. It was a look Lestat had always loved, how free they would become in their moments together, and even more so enjoyed that he did not always feel the strict need to tuck each strand back within place. The hand combing through them, the shudder beneath him, told him that his lover was savoring just that.
Louis’ cheeks hollowed themselves out as he drew into more, more more, his hunger never to be satiated, his maker just as eager to give as he was to take. And he would take that was given, saccharine wine leaving him as blood drunk as the hunt should have, memories they shared fogging in his mind.
The moonlight illuminating Louis’ features, fireflies and tall grass, the bald cypress above their canoe and Spanish moss reaching down to nearly hit his cheek. The shape of his lips as he smiled, the fern leaf secured around his finger as he grinned and reached up to let one of the lightning bugs perch on his finger, the ring finger no less.
Louis laying there in the darkness, his chest rising and falling so steadily, his breathing gentle, and somehow in sync. BUH-BUMP, BUH-BUMP, BUH-BUMP.
Their hands intertwined as they rested on the couch, the warmth of his tawny skin against the moonlight being, his nails short and human, then clawed, white, and filed down from shame.
Brown eyes, then green, how enchanting they both were in any light; golden flecks in the Edison bulbs, now emerald and new.
The anniversaries spent at the tailor shop, on that exact night of his making, sweat covering their bodies as they became one, over and over, desperately clawing at the other in need and reverence.
The firelight coming off of the locket within the church, a hard pull on the rosary he wore around his neck, bringing him closer, then a kiss in acceptance of his transformation and their companionship.
Louis hissed as he was pried off, Lestat still flush and warm no matter how much he had drank from him. Irises were impossible to distinguish from the pupils that had overtaken them, the buttons upon his shirt popping as his shirt was savagely ripped further open, now wasted to their hunger. And to think, he’d been careful in his own feedin’, all to keep the shirt intact.
“Mmmh, you got more to give,” he insisted, his eyelids heavy as his tongue ran along the length of his upper lip, fangs still shining in the light, decorated in the blood that filled his entire being. There was no line of self, only him, always him, living inside his veins and serving as the reason his heart pumped within his chest.
“Ahh ahh, it’s my turn to take you in.” Lestat caressed his face, thumb moving to swipe against the blood on his own lower lip before pressing the thumb against his tongue and swiping the offering against it. The generosity of it sent his head spinning, swallowing hard as he fell back into worship. “To taste you, become bewitched by you and your sweet ichor that I too am too addicted to.” A gentle brush of the curls that had been broken from their pomade and careful styling, “Give yourself to me, my love.”
Louis nodded, in spite of his wish to keep drinking, his own hands moving to hold his inamortano’s face, fingers sweetly brushing against those distinct and ethereal features. The naturally sharp cheekbones and the jawline carved by “the English language” supposedly, the brows that were blond-brown and expressive, the lips that were fuller from the kisses and biting and love.
“Shall I reopen old wounds?” Claws grazed over the multiple, faded half-moons lovingly.
He sighed heavily, as if it were an answer in itself.
A feline smile broke out onto those lips, and the hand at the back of his head slipped down to his neck, thumb pressing against his pulse and beckoning him to offer himself up.
Louis leaned his head back, verdant eyes closing as fangs sank into his skin, stamped perfectly as they had been that night, in their tailor shop, in that beloved space where they’d first sworn themselves to each other.
Another moan rose from him as he felt the first draw, then another accompanied by a large gulp, his own fingers enclosing over his lover’s throat to feel each portion that slid downward. He shivered as the next swallow was made larger for his own benefit, so it could be felt by both of them, however they wished.
The fog of love, one he still could not grow accustomed to after these years together, thickened and the world itself was shuttered out, their soft groans and joined breaths the only sounds to touch the breeze surrounding them. Their heartbeats were a singular beat, in mortality, immortality, even as he was being fed upon and the memories he held were now on display.
Their first touch of hands, accidental, then quite purposeful over a pot of gumbo.
Louis waking up in the morning after their promises in the tailor shop, curled in his lover’s arms that kept him snared close.
Using pomade for his curls in the townhouse, how he could see those beautiful eyes watching him in the mirror as he smiled back.
His razor cutting into his skin on accident as he shaved, and how it had become a place for Lestat to drink from as they lay on the bed, skin slapping against skin with soft whispers mingling in the air.
The first night in his own coffin, Lestat crawling in when he knew that the fledgling couldn’t sleep like this and on his own no less, pressing them heart to heart until the anxious patter of the heart had slowed.
How divine Lestat looked in the moonlight, graceful and glorious, never missing a step as they raced down the riverline together, laughing because there was no one to hear them at such an hour. And the freedom they felt as they found a tree with raised roots that provided shelter from the sun, their night of collections for their beloved corner and eventual lovemaking putting them at risk to burn.
Their nights in the courtyard, swaying to that song the neighbor boy had been working in for the better part of the year. And how golden he always was, this man who had been seemingly pulled from the bayou, gills to lungs, for him and him alone.
The thought of what it would be to put a ring on the lithe and nimble finger, emerald and silver, something that resembles his own eyes…
Love you, he thought drowsily, cradling the blond locks and twirling a curl around one of his tawny fingers, the nails still long from the failed hunt rather than his appearances to the public. He felt the jolt of the body beneath him, the rough and crushing pull to make them one if it could be managed; he smiled in return, nodding his approval at the idea, despite its impossibility.
As the blood pumped between the pink and sweet lips that kissed at his neck with every drink, he could not help the flush that crept up his cheeks at how loudly his thoughts and pulse must have been.
BUH-BUMP.
LESTAT.
BUH-BUMP.
LESTAT.
BUH-BUMP.
LESTAT.
Over and over again, the name engraved in each heartbeat, inseparable as it had perhaps always been, since their meeting in the Fairplay Saloon, to now, where they were as wedded as anyone else might have been.
A smirk against his skin and the rush of heat that came with it, as if he were being mocked; there was the strong urge to rip his maker from his neck, to deny the blood that kept them more connected in these moments than ever.
Lestat groaned beneath him and every thought in his mind cleared away, the sound ringing. Another gulp, another swirl of the talented tongue against his reopened marks, sending his nerves frying, poppin’ like grease on a skillet full of shrimp —
And then it was over, the blond beauty detaching himself and baring his blood soaked fangs. Louis’ chest heaved in satisfaction in filling his stomach and veins and throat and heart.
His lips trembled as he whispered, “Had your fill yet, sweeth’art?”
“I could drink from you for ages.” The lilac irises merely rimmed the widened pupils, nearly overtaken and hard to decipher in the night, even for a fledgling vampire.
“Wudd-jah now?” he retorted back, his accent thick and slurred, drunk off the moment more than he could ever want to admit to himself. “Cuh-ould keep drankin' if ya want.”
A hand at his jaw and their eyes met, lips nearly touching again, shared breaths, bloodied mouths. A soft laugh from those perfect lips before, “And if my hunger lies elsewhere, my dear Louis?”
It was only moments before there was the fumbling of fabric beneath palms and claws, ripping and pulling each other back into pure and utter bliss, mouths interlocked as much as their bodies, finally kilning into one before all of New Orleans and its stars.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Additional Tags: Fade to Black, Boys Kissing, Boys In Love, Human Louis de Pointe du Lac, NOLA courting era, Episode: s01e01 In Throes of Increasing Wonder (Interview with the Vampire TV 2022), Catholic Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, Post-Coital Cuddling, Lestat de Lioncourt Loves Louis de Pointe du Lac, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fighting As Foreplay, louis dealing with vampiric slumber, staying the night, Light Angst, like just for two seconds, Fluff, Domestic Bliss, lestat being a canon gigglebox, Not Beta Read, Loverboy Lestat de lioncourt
Series: Part 3 of iwtv oneshots
Summary: His chest tightened from the thought of facing his family. There was a safety there, the soft morning transforming into some kind of liminal space between what is and what could be.
or
Loustat one-night stand that results in Louis getting trapped in the arms of Lestat's vampiric slumber.
Such a simple, easy thing, spoken as if it were law. Louis could hear the wetness of Lestat’s dumbfounded tongue swiping over his bottom lip much more than he could see it, the words still caught in his throat. Arms wrapped around Lestat’s waist, something almost-shy, but not uncertain. Lestat hesitated for just a heartbeat of a moment before his instincts returned to him, tugging Louis closer, chest to chest, nose to nose.
