Bloodlust (Lestat de Lioncort/Louis de Pointe du Lac/)
The night was still, save for the rustling of the leaves in the trees, whispering like secrets only the wind could carry. The moon, full and radiant, hung low in the sky, casting pale light over the balcony that overlooked the dark, endless stretch of New Orleans. Louis sat there, his fingers lightly brushing the surface of the stone railing, staring out into the night. His eyes, as always, seemed to reflect the sorrow of centuries, a deep melancholy that never quite left him.
He had always loved the silence, but tonight it felt more like a prison. The weight of time had grown heavier as the years passed. The blood he drank, the lives he took, none of it ever erased the pain that gnawed at him—the gnawing hunger for something more.
Footsteps echoed behind him, the familiar sound that had come to represent so much more than just the presence of another. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Lestat. His maker. His tormentor. His... salvation.
"Still brooding, Louis?" The voice was rich, deep, teasing. It was the voice of someone who knew the very core of a person, a voice that could both comfort and cut.
Louis didn’t answer right away. He simply stared ahead, as though the city below could somehow offer him the solace he sought. It was a futile wish. "You never let me be," he finally muttered.
Lestat moved beside him, his presence a force, an almost tangible energy that swept through the air. He leaned on the railing with one arm, his gaze falling to Louis, though the vampire’s expression was unreadable.
"You are mine," Lestat said, his tone soft yet unmistakable in its certainty. "You always will be, whether you like it or not."
Louis met his gaze at last. The moonlight glinted off Lestat’s golden hair, making him look almost ethereal, a creature of both beauty and destruction. His eyes, those piercing, predatory eyes, glimmered with something else—something Louis knew all too well.
"Why do you keep doing this?" Louis asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but it held a weight to it—an accusation and a plea all at once.
Lestat chuckled, a low, almost musical sound that sent shivers down Louis’s spine. "What do you mean? This?" He gestured vaguely between them, though his eyes never left Louis. "I’m just here, Louis. You seem to forget that sometimes. I never leave."
Louis lowered his gaze, the tension between them palpable, almost suffocating. "I wish you would," he murmured, though even as the words left his lips, he felt the deep pang of regret. It was the same regret he always felt after every fight, every argument that seemed to tear them apart, only to bring them closer in the end.
Lestat’s gaze darkened for a moment, something flickering in his eyes—an emotion Louis couldn’t quite decipher. Then, without warning, Lestat reached out and cupped Louis’s face in his hand, turning him gently to face him.
"You never meant that," Lestat said, his voice tender now, as if sensing the conflict within Louis. "You want me here, just as much as I want you."
Louis didn’t pull away, though his heart ached. He didn’t know how many more times he could fight this—fight them. He didn’t know how many more times he could deny the truth that lingered between them, in the silences, in the touches, in the gazes that lingered just a bit too long.
"You’re cruel, Lestat," Louis whispered, his breath catching in his throat. "You make me love you, even when I hate you."
Lestat’s smile was slow, knowing. "You always loved me, Louis. You just don’t know how to admit it."
Before Louis could respond, Lestat leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss that was both gentle and possessive, a kiss that held all the promises and pain of eternity. Louis froze at first, his body betraying him, but soon his hands reached up, threading through Lestat’s hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.
It was a kiss that spoke of years of longing, of pain, of all the things they had never said to each other, but had always known. Lestat’s lips were fire and ice against his, the touch both a comfort and a reminder of the darkness they had both embraced, of the life they had chosen, and the price they paid for it.
When they pulled away, their breaths ragged, the world around them seemed to spin. Louis looked at Lestat, his eyes searching, conflicted.
"Why?" he asked softly, his voice trembling with something he couldn’t name.
Lestat smiled, a more sincere, almost vulnerable smile than Louis had ever seen. "Because you’re the only one who ever made me feel anything real, Louis. You may hate me. You may loathe me. But I know you. And I know that deep down, you want this. You want me."
Louis didn’t know how to respond to that. He only knew that, for the first time in centuries, he didn’t want to fight anymore. For the first time, he didn’t want to run.
"I hate you," Louis whispered again, but there was no conviction in the words. Only a truth they both knew too well.
Lestat’s hand slid down to Louis’s chest, over his heart that still beat despite everything. "Then let me give you something to hate, Louis. Let me give you all of me. All the love, all the pain. It’s yours, just as much as I am."
Louis closed his eyes, feeling the heat of Lestat’s touch, the weight of his words. And in that moment, he realized that the love he had tried to deny for so long was something that had never left him. It had always been there, quietly waiting beneath the surface, ready to consume him, to claim him, just as Lestat had always been there, ready to claim him in return.
The night stretched on, and beneath the gaze of the moon, Louis gave in. He kissed Lestat again, this time with all the hunger and desire that had been building for centuries, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to fight it. Not tonight.
Not ever again.