#interview with the vampire x fem!reader

[yesimwriting]

On a rewatch of iwtv (of course) and in episode 4 of season 1 we see a bit of Daniel’s laptop notes, I wonder what his notes on bestie would be like:

Bestie

How is she affording Ubers here all the time and in the middle of the night? Private cars? Private walksss????

where are her other friends and are they normal? I hope they are normal

Can’t be seated next to Louis - too easy of a distraction

Laughs like Lucille Ball

“Like that time at The Stonewall Inn when we…” when we what - Louis doesn’t want me to know?? Or Armand??

Knows how to push buttons (almost endearingly, but I’m getting worried)

These notes are so endearing omg "laughs like Lucille Ball" is so sentimental to me 😭

Daniel spends five minutes alone with bestie and becomes the embodiment of the tiktok sound that goes 'Why are you with this middle aged weirdo? Does he have a lot of money?'

Anyway here are some bestie-centered notes on Daniel's laptop:

----

As unaware of the lengths that people will go to for her as Daisy Buchanan.

Capable of delivering insults in a way that keeps her from ever seeming like the problem.

Has asked about my health twice in the last three days, and seemed to mean it.

Either doesn't notice how often her vampire 'friends' look at her, or is really good at pretending to be unaware.

Got bored during one of the sessions and stole one of my notebooks to doodle. Drew a weirdly nice picture of me.

Scolded the Vampire Armand for not saying 'bless you' after I sneezed.

Regularly throws me apologetic looks when one of her friends says something she considers impolite.

Doesn't seem to think anything of Armand or Louis holding her hand.

Sighs when Louis recounts going back to Lestat.

Laughed at my telenovela joke.

Armand regularly brings her cut up fruit without being asked to. Is this an arrangement they have? Is she thinking about fruit or is it impulsive on Armand's part??

Wears a diamond on her ring finger every day. When asked about it, she just grinned and said, "Isn't it pretty? Louis got it for me." No further context has been provided.

Considers the Vampire Lestat a "loser". (I'd like to think she wouldn't say--or think--it to his face, but I sincerely doubt it).

Responded to a casual threat by telling Armand that he's not "as invulnerable as he thinks he is" and that she's "not above opening a window during peak daylight hours." Faced no repercussions for doing so.

Has a room to use as an art studio inside the penthouse. I only know this because she occasionally brings out paintings to show me (they're objectively well made)

[ccwpidsblog]

SAINTS AND SINNERS — iwtv

SUMMARY : Edmée Heart, the dutiful daughter of a pastor, lives a sheltered life bound by rules and expectations. But her quiet world begins to unravel when she catches the attention of Louis de Pointe du Lac and Lestat de Lioncourt, two enigmatic men with dark secrets. Drawn to Edmée’s innocence, Louis and Lestat vie for her affection, each offering her a taste of freedom and danger.

RATING : 18+

CONTENT WARNING: season one spoilers, not entirely accurate to the show but we’re all grown here it shouldn’t matter much, eventual polyamory, heavy religious themes, daddy issues, more to be added

CWPID NOTES 🏹: this is a great way to come back and show how much my writing has improved. redeeming myself from the trash fiction i was writing before. ON A03 N WILL ONLY BE UPDATED ON AO3 (if im not being lazy)

Edmée remembered the Sundays before Louis de Pointe du Lac avoided the sun, somehow, he’d managed to arrive at church after a long night of sin. He was always late, slipping through the heavy wooden doors just as her father’s booming voice began the first prayer. From her family’s high pew, she could see him moving down the aisle, the faint scent of booze and perfume lingering on his clothes—a sinful whisper of the previous night’s indulgences.

He’d take his usual seat beside his brother, his strong frame settling heavily into the creaking wood. His head would bow, his eyes would close, and for the rest of the service, he remained still. Unmoving, like a statue carved from marble. At first, Edmée thought he might be sleeping, but there was something too deliberate about the way he held himself, his hands clasped loosely on his lap, his expression unreadable.

She couldn’t stop watching him. From her elevated view, she memorized the way the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across his dark skin. He looked ethereal, caught between shadows and light, the kind of beauty that left her breathless and guilty all at once. She tried to focus on her father’s sermon, but her gaze always drifted back to Louis.

At the end of every service, as her father stood by the doors shaking hands and offering blessings, Louis would rise with a graceful ease. He’d move through the small crowd, a charming smile on his lips, and when he reached her father, he always made a point to praise the sermon. “Your words speak straight to the soul, Pastor Heart,” he’d say, his voice like velvet dipped in honey.

Then he’d turn to her mother, taking her hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles. “A vision of grace, as always, Mrs. Heart,” he’d say, his words smooth and effortless.

But when his gaze finally reached Edmée, it changed. He wouldn’t kiss her hand, wouldn’t offer a compliment. Instead, he’d nod at her, a playful, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. That smile—the one that made her feel like the only girl in the world and completely invisible at the same time. If her skin had been any lighter, she knew she would’ve turned as red as the pew cushions beneath her.

In passing, he treated her the same. A quick nod, a flash of white teeth. But she noticed how he greeted the other women—the kisses, the murmured words that made them laugh and fan themselves, the lingering glances. With her, there was none of that.

Only a nod. A smile.

And it made her stomach twist with jealousy. The last time Edmée saw Louis was at Grace’s wedding. The church was packed, and the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the murmur of joyous chatter. Louis was everywhere that day—his laugh echoing above the music, his face alight with a rare kind of happiness that made him seem untouchable. He was glowing, his usual quiet intensity replaced by something brighter, freer. Edmée stood by the punch table, nervously clutching a glass, when he approached her. She didn’t see him coming; one moment she was alone, and the next he was there, his presence commanding and electric.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Maybe even more beautiful than the bride.”

Her breath caught, her cheeks burning.

“Don’t tell Grace,” he added with a wink, leaning in just enough that she caught a whiff of his cologne—a mix of cedar and something darker, richer. Edmée could only nod, her voice stolen by his closeness, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

Months.

Many months without seeing him.

The pew Louis shared with Paul and his family remained empty every Sunday, a silent memorial to all that had unraveled. No one dared to sit there now, not after everything. Not after Paul’s tragic passing, not after the whispers.

The whispers.

They followed Louis like a shadow, stretching long and dark through the town. The women at her mother’s so-called “Bible studies” spoke of him in hushed tones, their voices dripping with scandal and sanctimony. “Dancing with the devil,” they’d say, the words lingering in the air like smoke. Edmée would sit in the corner, quietly stitching or polishing silver, her ears pricking at every mention of his name. Her brothers were no better. On Thursday nights, they’d gather in the attic for their card games, their voices low and conspiratorial. Edmée wasn’t allowed to join, of course, but she’d found her own way around that rule. If she sat at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, her father wouldn’t scold her.

There, she could catch snippets of their conversations, each word painting a more vivid picture of the man she hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“...seen him with him again...” “...spends his nights where no decent man would...” “...more dead than alive, if you ask me.”

The words made her chest tighten, her heart ache. She couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Louis de Pointe du Lac, the man who nodded at her with that secret smile, who complimented her at Grace’s wedding, couldn’t be what they said he was. Could he?

But her father’s rules were ironclad. She couldn’t ask, couldn’t go looking for answers. The world outside their home was a forbidden one, especially now. Edmée’s days were measured in prayers and chores, her nights spent reading scripture or mending clothes by candlelight. Her father had made it clear: the streets were no place for a proper young lady, especially after dark. The world out there was dangerous, filled with temptation and sin. But tonight, as she stood by the forbidden window, the temptation was unbearable.

The house was quiet, her family long asleep. The window, a heavy thing with rusted hinges, had always been forbidden. “Nothing good comes from looking where you shouldn’t,” her father had said countless times. But tonight, Edmée couldn’t help herself. She pressed her fingers to the cool glass, peering into the moonlit street below. At first, there was nothing. Just the empty streetlamps and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. But then, she saw him.

Louis

He was walking slowly down the cobblestone street, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his head slightly bowed. The gaslight caught his face, illuminating its sharp angles, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked different—thinner, wearier, as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She pressed closer to the glass, watching him with the kind of hunger she didn’t dare name.

“Not tonight,” Louis said, his voice low but sharp. Another figure emerged from the shadows. He appeared with a startling grace, stepping into the lamplight as if conjured from the darkness itself. His hair gleamed like spun gold, his sharp, angular features both striking and unnerving.

There was a wildness about him, a dangerous energy that made Edmée’s heart race in an entirely different way.

“Louis,” Lestat’s voice purred, low and teasing, the sound carrying up to her window. “Out for another pensive stroll, are we? Tell me, do you plan to sulk your way through eternity, or is this just for tonight’s entertainment?”

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Lestat,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with frustration. “Oh, but you never are,” Lestat replied, stepping closer. “And yet, here I am, devoted as ever. You should be flattered, mon cher.”

From her perch, Edmée couldn’t look away. The two men stood in stark contrast—Louis, somber and grounded, and Lestat, all sharp smiles and restless energy. Their connection was undeniable, charged with something she didn’t quite understand but found utterly captivating.

Lestat reached out, brushing an invisible speck from Louis’s shoulder with a flourish. “And speaking of devotions,” he said, his tone turning sly, “you’ve been spending an awful lot of time on this street. Seems that you miss the little church mouse lately? What’s her name again? Edmée?”

She could see the shift in Louis as he seemingly snapped, finally turning to face Lestat. “Leave her out of this,”

Lestat’s grin widened. “Oh, mon ami, you wound me. I only meant to say she’s... enchanting, in her own way. So innocent, so untouched by the world.” He tilted his head, his gaze flickering upward as though he might sense her watching.

Panicking, Edmée ducked away from the window, her heart pounding in her chest. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to steady her breath.

Had he seen her?

Had they seen her?

Who was he?

What was he to Louis?

As she sat there in the dark, the questions swirled in her mind, each one more troubling than the last. And though she couldn’t explain why, she felt as though she had glimpsed something forbidden, something that would change everything if she let it.

[lady-phasma]

Fangtober Day 3 - Ejactulation

Rockstar!Lestat x fem!reader

Summary: Rockstar!Lestat picks you out of the crowd at his concert and smut ensues, plot if you squint. It isn’t exactly perfect for the Day 3 prompt, but it still works. 3.7k words.

Warnings: MDNI 18+, graphic sex, unprotected sex/creampie,

a/n: reader is afab but not described, I wrote this to fulfill this request and the amazing and wonderful @aemondsbabe collaborated with me and provided the scenario, ty ilysm! I may pick this up for a future prompt this month, we’ll see.

Lestat couldn’t stop looking at you. There, near the front row, not screaming and crying, but singing along and smiling. That smile… so utterly unselfconscious. He couldn’t resist. His glance returned to you time and time again until he finished the set and strutted off stage.

As you exited the venue, a young woman with a lanyard and shirt bearing STAFF across the back approached you.

“Miss?” She spoke softly, but loud enough for you to hear over the crowd. “Would you follow me?”

“Me?” Like a cliche, you pointed at yourself and looked around you.

“Yes miss, right this way.” She turned and started to walk toward the backstage area. Your heart thundered in your ears and sweat threatened your palms.

What the fuck have I done? you thought, assuming you were in trouble, but you couldn’t think of a thing. As she led you through a door and down a hallway, your mouth went dry. The rooms you passed looked suspiciously like dressing rooms.

The woman stopped at a door near the end of the hall and tapped her knuckles lightly against it.

“Monsieur de Lioncourt?” she paused, waiting for a reply.

“Entré.” How one word could sound so melodious, you weren’t sure, but that thought was fleeting as the door opened and the woman waved you inside.

Lestat sat on a sofa against the wall. The only light in the room was a floor lamp in the corner. A dim respite from the lights of the stage. But his eyes caught all of the low light in the room and shimmered a nearly translucent blue.

“Ah, I see they found you. Have a seat.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. His movements were fluid and graceful, slower than his frenetic on-stage energy.

“Thank you,” you managed as you sat. You tried to get ahold of yourself when he asked your name and you replied with only a slight quaver in your voice.

“I would very much like for you to accompany me to my hôtel this evening. Would you be amenable to that, mademoiselle?” His accent was delightful and didn’t appear to be an affectation. Perhaps that part of his persona was genuine.

“I would be honored,” you never spoke so formally, but something about him brought it out in you. You smoothed your hands over your pants nervously, but you held his gaze.

“Bien.” The word was short and clipped and he stood up more abruptly than you had expected. You tried to do the same but your head swam, not just from the quick rise from your seat. Is this happening? I could pinch myself. Another cliche flew through your mind.

He flashed you a smile and beckoned you to follow him out of the room. You were hardly aware you were doing it at all and then you were outside the backstage exit amidst a crowd of fans. Lestat slid so effortlessly into the limo, one moment he was on the pavement with you, the next only an outstretched hand appeared from the open door. You took a deep breath and slipped your hand into his. Before you could exhale the din of the fans was gone and the door shut behind you. He sat opposite you, his back to the driver and absently gazed around him, seeming to be disinterested in this arrangement.

“So…” his voice was thick, oily, his tone slightly aloof. “You enjoyed the show.”

You swallowed and managed a nod. His eyes flicked up to yours, his dark, smudged makeup making the blue, which was somehow bright in the dim backseat. He leaned forward resting his forearms on his crossed legs.

“You know every word,” he whispered, causing you to lean forward slightly. “Do you sing along as you drive to work, go to the gym, or… in the shower?” Lestat’s smile was unsettling and you felt your entire body go hot. You instinctively crossed your legs. “Humans do so enjoy singing in the shower.”

“I… I, um,” you had never stuttered in your life. Get a grip! you thought. Lestat chuckled softly and you looked at him quickly then away.

“I listen to your music while I do a lot of things. The words just stick. I guess I sing along sometimes too.” You looked back up at him as he reclined back against the seat.

As if the universe saw fit to release you from your embarrassment, the limo slowed and stopped. When the door opened Lestat gestured for you to exit first. The hotel was sleek and modern at first glance. The building had a facelift at some point in the recent past, but the lobby was sumptuous and elegant.

You felt out of place and then froze mid-step when you remembered why you were here and who you were with. Lestat strode past you without stopping and you sped up to catch back up with him at the elevators. The doors slid open and you stepped in after him. A meticulously manicured finger pressed the penthouse button and he then did the most mundane thing possible: he tapped his room key against the panel. It seemed like a lot of work for him to keep up this vampire persona, especially when he was doing everyday things for himself.

You took a moment to look him up and down for the first time since the concert. He was lithe but not slim, his hips jutted seductively just at the waistband of his pants, which you could see because of the slightly too-short-to-be-practical shirt he was wearing. He was disheveled from the concert, possibly even sexier like this and this close. He glanced at you as the elevator neared his floor. He pushed off the wall of the elevator where he had been leaning and took a step toward you. You thought he might speak, but he didn’t. He turned and faced the elevator doors when they opened.

“Siri, play Alexis Ffrench,” Lestat commanded as you entered the penthouse suite. Delicate and entrancing piano music flowed from the speakers. He walked into the living room and sat on the couch. You followed, tentatively beginning to sit in an arm chair across from him.

“No, chère, here,” he gestured next to him. You accepted his offer and sat down. “Now, where were we?” He mused. He looked at you inscrutably now. You glanced around the room, taking in the opulence. There were bottles of water on the coffee table.

“Um, may I?” you asked as you reached for one.

“Of course,” he replied. “So…” he began as you opened the bottle and took a sip. “Are you suitably impressed?” His smile was sly, underlining his jest. He stretched an arm across the back of the couch and crossed his legs. He was so casual, at ease, the total opposite of your own posture.

“I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever been in a hotel room like this before.” You looked around again, then back to him. “Would you like one?” you asked holding up the bottle.

“Moi? Non, merci, I haven’t had a sip of water in a century.”

You furrowed your brow, put the lid back on the water bottle, and sat it on a coaster on the coffee table. You tried to get comfortable on the sofa but it was hard to look directly at him while sitting so close. You turned and sat on one of your legs, your foot behind your knee.

“Is that so?” you raised an eyebrow at him, taking the bait. “So you keep the act up as long as anyone is around?” You waved your hand in his general direction when you said ‘act,’ indicating his entire person.

“The act? Hmmm,” he smiled softly and examined the back of one hand and his nails. “Do you not find it appealing?” He dropped his hand to his lap and leaned slightly closer to you.

“Oh it definitely works for you.” You felt your face go hot and almost reached for the bottle of water, but Lestat moved closer to you on the sofa. It was impossible that he moved that fast, you swore you must just not have been paying attention.

“Ha! Oui, it has ‘worked’ for me for quite some time,” he laughed and his once-blue eyes looked almost pale lavender. You blinked at him. Maybe it’s a contact high from the concert, you told yourself.

“No,” Lestat reached his hand out and touched your jaw, holding your gaze with the lightest pressure of his fingertips. “You are not intoxicated by anything. You just refuse to see. May I show you?”

You nodded and swallowed. You felt entranced. This was more than physical attraction, he was magnetic. Before you had time to truly register what he had said and what he was doing, Lestat leaned toward you and kissed you softly. His fingers slid up your jaw to cradle your face in his hand. He lingered for just a moment before murmuring something that sounded like belle and then sat up straight again. His hand moved to your neck, his thumb stroking just below your ear. You watched with a mix of horror and arousal as fangs, actual fangs, appeared in his mouth.

“How…” you began, but the sound barely came out and you couldn’t have finished anyway before he was kissing you again. His lips were cool and hard against yours. He guided you closer to him, seeming to move you himself. Your knee pressed against his now, the inches that were between you completely gone. You felt yourself lean into his kiss, reaching out to rest your hand on his leg, as if to steady yourself. You felt momentarily dizzy and pulled back to catch your breath. Lestat began to cover your neck in kisses and you gasped.

“I…” you took a deep breath. “I don’t understand.” Your words came out almost as a sigh. You closed your eyes. You instinctively moved your hand to his arm as he pressed against you.

“’S’okay,” Lestat murmured against your neck. “Relax. Enjoy.” You groaned quietly as his lips and fangs grazed the skin just above the collar of your shirt. You arched your back when he moved a hand behind you, supporting you.

You began to give into the sensations, to suspend your disbelief, let him continue to play the vampire. Who cares? He’s hot and talented and crazy usually comes with the territory.

“We shall see about that,” Lestat said. He replied as if he has heard your thoughts. Not possible, but again, who cares?

“Fine, whatever, just don’t stop,” you moaned and ran your hand up his arm, over his shoulder to the nape of his neck.

Suddenly, startlingly, Lestat stood, guided you with him, and scooped you up, one hand behind your knees. Okay, he’s strong, you thought, trying nearly-futilely to make sense of him, but not caring all that much. You were in the bedroom before the thoughts were finished running through your mind.

Lestat sat you on the bed and looked at you for a moment, then he sat facing you. He slid your shirt up, his hands on your sides and you raised your arms to allow him to slip it over your head and off your arms. You were moving fast with him in a way that was exhilarating. You still felt half in a dream, but you wanted this, may have even allowed yourself to daydream about this before, a fantasy for millions of fans.

Immediately his mouth went to your breasts, kissing and nipping on them through the fabric of your bra. His hands moved quickly and effortlessly to your bra closure and unclasped it in one movement. You let him slide it off your shoulders. He exhaled softly before taking one of your nipples in his mouth. He held you still with his hands on your back and licked your nipple before grazing his teeth against it. He moved to the other and sucked it between his lips quickly and you gasped. The sensation made you clutch at him, trying to steady yourself. You ran a hand up the back of his neck into his silky hair. The pressure increased and you dug your fingers into his skin.

“Oh god, yes,” you moaned and let your head fall back as he sucked. Slowly he slid his a hand to your other breast and squeezed, not quite roughly. Every movement he made was elegant and deliberate. Before you realized it was happening, Lestat was laying you back on the bed. He slid one thigh between yours and pressed against you slightly. His strength made the movement effortless, his mouth never leaving your breast. You arched your back against him, feeling the wetness between your legs as you tried to grind against his leg. He pulled his other hand from behind your back and cupped both breasts in his hands. Moving from one to the other, he drug his lips along your chest. You felt the gentle scratch of his fangs on your skin.

“You taste fantastic ma petite,” he whispered against you. He ran his thumb over the nipple that wasn’t in his mouth. You pressed your chest up toward him. You wanted to touch him all over, but settled for reaching down to tug his shirt up, trying to get to bare skin. You grazed your fingertips up his sides and around to his back. He moaned around your nipple and goosebumps spread over your body. You dug your fingers into his back as he reached between you to unfasten your pants. Your heart raced and you squeezed your eyes shut at the overwhelming sensations. Suddenly Lestat pulled back and sat up to kneeling, both hands in the waistband of your pants. With no effort at all, he peeled them off and tossed them on the floor, taking your panties with them. A small chuckled had escaped your lips as you had lifted your legs to ‘assist.’ You covered your mouth with the back of one hand.

“Non, chère,” he murmured and moved your hand from your face. You opened your eyes at his touch. He kissed your lips gently then slid off the bed and stood next to it. You felt incredibly odd for a split second and then you were absorbed in his movements, nearly forgetting your own nakedness. He pulled his shirt off, shaking his blonde hair lightly as the shirt left his head. Far too slowly, he hooked his thumbs in his pants and began to slide them down. You involuntarily licked your lips as he revealed his hip bones. You shifted your hips on the bed, rubbing your thighs together slightly. His eyes darted from yours to your legs then back to meet your gaze. His pants hit the floor and he stepped out of them as he moved to get back on the bed. He slid a hand between your knees and opened your legs again, moving between them.

Your eyes were transfixed on his perfect cock. You noticed the V-shape of his torso, of course, but it only forced your eyes downward to the tidy curls of dusty-blonde hair and absolutely beautiful cock. You tore your eyes away and looked up at his face. He was smirking, completely vain and self-satisfied. You couldn’t care less. You spread your legs a fraction wider and smiled back at him. He looked down the full length of your body then leaned forward kissing your chest and stomach again.

Lestat’s hands roved everywhere. You lost track as he moved against you. You ran one hand into his hair, let the other touch every available inch of his skin. Gently you tugged him upward, encouraging him. His lips found yours and kissed you deeply, fangs grazing your lips. You moaned as his tongue slid between your lips. You tangled your fingers deeper into his hair. He propped himself up on one hand by your head and reached between you with the other. Still kissing you, he slid his cock between your wet folds. Something like a groan came from his lips, vibrating into your mouth. The head of his cock nudged your clit and you lifted your hips.

“So needy,” he muttered as he broke the kiss. You felt him move further back and press against your entrance. His hand slid up your side and grazed your breast as he slipped his hand under your shoulder. You looked at him, eyes almost glazed over with desire, and bit your bottom lip. His lips parted slightly and he exhaled as he began to slide into you. He took his time, savoring your wet heat.

“Mon dieu,” Lestat moaned softly. You moved the hand not in his hair to his lower back and urged him on. You tilted your head back and sighed as he pressed into you completely. Lestat stayed there, filling you up, for a brief moment, then he began to move in short strokes. He kissed down your jaw and neck as he moved. You gripped his hip and pulled him toward you. He lengthened his strokes and made the most delicious sounds next to your ear. You fingers neared the top of his buttocks as you lifted a leg to his hip.

“Yes, fuck, you feel amazing,” you rambled. Lestat slid his hand down your body and behind your thigh, guiding your leg higher. He tilted his hips to find a new angle and his cock rubbed against that spot deep inside you. The sounds you made were unintelligible. You clenched around him, perhaps trying to keep him in place, but he increased his pace, returning to that spot over and over again. You may have groaned his name, you weren’t sure, you couldn’t control the sounds that tumbled from you.

Still propped on one hand, Lestat slid his hand from behind your thigh, across your hip, and down to your belly. Your hips twitched against his. His fingers traveled lightly between you. He found his goal expertly and slid slowly over your clit. The pressure was too gentle and you whined, in truth, an embarrassing sort of sound, but he seemed to enjoy it. He drew the sound from your lips again with a couple more light strokes before increasing his pressure.

Lestat sped up the movement of his hips and didn’t quite match the rhythm with his fingers. He lifted his head and watched you through the curtain of his hair. Your fingernails grazed his scalp and he groaned. You rocked your hips as he made small circles on your clit, meeting his thrusts, chasing the friction and the overwhelming pleasure.

“Just like that that, chère,” Lestat whispered as he watched your face. You couldn’t continue to look into those blue-lilac eyes and squeezed yours shut as you felt your orgasm begin at his fingers. You wanted it desperately, but you also never wanted this to end. Your hand moved to his ass and on his next stroke pulled him as deep as you could. He moaned and dropped his forehead to yours. He never ceased his movements against your clit and your body shook as your climax started to wash over you. You weren’t sure you had ever felt so good. You would think about it later, but the twitch of your hips and ab muscles every time his fingers passed around your clit was a new experience. You thought you heard him chuckle.

His hips moved quicker now, not slowed by your clenched muscles around his cock. You tightened harder around him. Your body curled as you came and you threw your arm around his neck. Your forehead nearly rested on his shoulder, putting your ear next to his lips. He muttered delicate French words you didn’t understand. He finally moved his hand from you and slid it around your waist, holding you close to him. You cried out softly as he pounded into you and were so spent, so delirious from the intensity of your orgasm that you didn’t hear his question the first time.

“Where do you want it?” he repeated. You groaned. How could you answer that? You already knew what you were doing was risky, but your birth control flashed in your mind and you whispered your answer in his ear.

“Come inside me.” Those three little words were enough. Lestat’s hips never stuttered or faltered. He fucked you smoothly through his orgasm, moaning your name. You thought you might have been able to come again, but then you felt his hips stop and his release spill into you. He cursed and stroked into you a few more times before gently laying you back on the bed. He looked down at you, tilted his head, and tucked one side of his hair behind his ear. Then he stroked your cheek and moved back to kneeling. His movement inside you made you groan with the renewed stimulation, but he only smiled at you as he pulled out. It was a fond smile, not exactly taking pleasure in your soft whine as he left you empty, but not not enjoying it.

Lestat lay down on the bed next to you. He didn’t pull you close to him, but he put his arm out for you to lift your head. You lay back, head resting on his arm, your sides touching down the length of your bodies.

“Holy fuck,” you muttered as you caught your breath. “I mean it. Holy fuck.” Lestat chuckled at your exclamation.

“Perhaps that was not enough proof, but I think you might be more open-minded now, no?” His fingers trailed over your upper arm and shoulders, the fingernails grazing your skin.

“Honestly, does it matter?” You looked at him, but you weren’t sure you still had doubts. Your rational mind told you vampires couldn’t exist and he was insane or, at the very least, eccentric. Probably the only thing that would convince me would be him drinking my blood and I might be up for that. He’s a weirdo but he’s fucking gorgeous.

“That could be arranged.” Lestat’s soft laugh caused goosebumps to race over your skin. Your eyes were wide as he turned to lay on his side, propping himself on his elbow to look at you.

Fangtober 2024 prompt list • Main masterlist

[ghouldump]

✧ iwtv imagines

everything is gn!reader or fem!reader.

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002

beautiful deception

moving to paris, the last thing you expected was to come across the ancient vampire.

beautiful deception, untold truth

remembering the truth sometimes hurts, but perhaps love will prevail

bring me back to life

when he discovers something new, rejuvenating him from anything that has happened, and now he has to have her

teacher’s pet

hunting with armand as his new lovely fledgling and companion.

to be loved

idolized and worshipped by your coven members, alive but not living, things quickly change for you when you move to paris, and meet your soulmate.

ride the dragon

during the anticipated interview, daniel didn’t expect louis to have such an alluring companion

001 002 003

anything for you ii

all he wants is for you to be his perfect companion, yet you keep chasing the fleeting things of life.

as you are | bi!reader

cuddling together, the two of you share your experiences with past lovers.

come to me

lestat is willing to do anything to get his companion back, even if it means revealing his identity to the entire world.

diva

lestat is a handful to tour with but he's also incredibly handsome and charismatic.

fallen

princess of demacia, a marine kingdom is temporarily banished. she refuses to conform to the standard, being a heartless killer. wandering the water, she finds herself in new orleans, where she meets a vampire.

fangirl

meeting the vampire rockstar goes surprisingly well.

love me | bi!reader

as your companionship seems to be failing, you retreat, seeking comfort from a woman who looks awfully similar.

masquerade

even with your horrific background, he fell deeply for your heart.

pretty when you cry | bi!reader

when you are hunting, focused on your prey, you don't even realize how beautiful you look to lestat.

spider and the fly

when lestat uses louis as bait to lure and trap his actual prey.

sweet rapture | bi!reader

lestat is a firm believer that as a vampire, your very existence is about pleasure, but for the first time, he meets someone who shares this belief, even beyond his standards.

the miseducation of vampire lestat | series

The story of a forbidden love, when the young upcoming singer gets herself tangled in the dark world of the rockstar, Lestat. He is too captivating to leave, despite everyone’s efforts to keep the relationship from happening. However, the longer you are close to the brat prince, allowing him to consume your thoughts, the more you realize none of them — not a single one of them, actually knew anything genuine about him.

the night is ours

being awakened, naturally you go to your old love, only to find that he is now a rockstar, perhaps now you can have the happily ever after you both once wanted.

thicker than water

you should have known better than to entertain someone who would bring up the idea of leaving your husband and daughter.

trick or treat

sneaking into the supposedly empty townhouse, you are met by a surprise

tu es mon autre

he never thought he would meet someone who brought back such familiar feelings.

your best nightmare

being away from your companion, as both of you take on stardom, can be frustrating, but it is very rewarding to see your maker for the first time in months.

if only for one night

initially finding out about the de pointe du lac’s interest, you wanted to steer clear of him, until you accidentally ran into him and changed your entire perception

all i ask of you | loustat x reader

when lestat takes matters into his own hands, leaving louis to sit in his regret of not complying with your wishes.

back in my arms | loustat x reader

time traveling accidentally and you're able to relive bittersweet memories.

forever young | loustat x reader

you meet someone who reminds you of your maker, and naturally gravitate to them, but your family isn't as welcoming to the idea of the man.

for the love of a daughter | loustat x reader

out of fear, lestat does the unimaginable and has to try his hardest to win his family's trust back, but it may be too late

god complex | loustat x reader

you want out, realizing your little family isn't as perfect as you thought, but they would never let you slip away so easily.

l’amour de ma vie | loustat x reader

while you love your companions, it is no secret that they oftentimes exclude you, and it isn't until you leave that they go into panic mode.

trust | loumand x reader

born for stardom, but destined for chaos, the last thing you ever expected was for two old vampires to become your companions.

[theladyofthevarioussorrows]

In honor of Lestat de Lioncourt's 264th birthday, I present to you...

Written in Blood, or the Play in which The Brat Prince Ties the Knot

Part I (of IV)

Fandom: The Vampire Chronicles (Gothic horror novel series, 1976-2018); Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire (TV series, 2022-present)

Pairing: Lestat de Lioncourt/fem!reader; Lestat de Lioncourt/You

Word count: 3,900+

Characters: Lestat de Lioncourt (Sam Reid, the best version…­­­the only one that matters, obviously); fem!reader; The Vampire Armand (lol ouch); Nicolas de Lenfent (even bigger ouch, RIP); Santiago; Estelle; Celeste; Eglee; Sam; Gustav; Quang Pham; pretty much the entire Theatre des Vampires.

Summary: Fem!reader is the newest addition to the Theatre des Vampires, and Lestat becomes smitten with her (of course he does, the little whore!). Lestat’s allure, charm, beauty, and viciousness are not lost on the reader, and she falls for him (I mean, who wouldn’t, let’s be honest). With fem!reader being the freshest member of the Coven, Santiago “initiates” her (similar to how he brought Claudia in) by casting her as Lestat’s co-star in the next play as his love interest. The play, overseen reluctantly by Armand is about a wedding (in the vein of The Taming of the Shrew, As You Like It, or something similar but accurate to the time period, that is the vibe…Lestat, little miss Lady Macbeth himself, “barely Balthazar” Armand, “too old to play Hamlet, too young to play Polonius” Santiago, and I are all Shakespeare girlies, so I thought it would make sense); fem!reader and Lestat are actually getting legally married, unbeknownst to the mortal audience. Fem!reader and Lestat are to be the bride and groom, Santiago is the Justice of the Peace, and the rest of the TDV are the wedding party. While Armand is still the Coven leader, he “directs” the play and Nicki leads the orchestra. Things do not go the way they were planned to go (in Armand’s case); a story of love, sex, and vampire drama unfolds.

Warnings and additional tags: New/eventual relationship, established relationship, smut (P in V), fluff, mention of sex, mention of masturbation, (F and M), oral sex (F and M receiving), all characters (except the reader, duh) are written to be as close to the way they are in the books as well as the show to the best of my ability, reader-insert, reader-interactive, use of Y/N, Lestat gives the reader pet names in French (this is Lestat, after all), mutual pining, flirting, slight voyeurism, slight exhibitionism (is anything Lestat does really a secret? No, not really), blood drinking, blood sucking, bloodletting, biting, gore, violence, murder (feeding on humans is the only instance of this), both Lestat and fem!reader are bisexual, age gap (fem!reader is younger than Lestat by at least a bit but it doesn’t really matter as much because he himself is a new-ish vampire; Lestat would still be somewhere in his thirties in mortal years by the show’s timeline), Lestat is very seductive and persuasive (fem!reader doesn’t need much persuading, so it’s not a bad thing), a bunch of mentions of Shakespeare, lines from As You Like It are in italics and dialogue from vampires using the Mind Gift are in bold italics.

Notes: This story takes place while Lestat is still performing with the Theatre des Vampires and is newly a vampire himself. Magnus is obviously dead by now (thank God). The events of this fic take place after Lestat breaks up with both Nicki (he is still alive at this point in time) and Armand, but before he meets Louis de Pointe du Lac and later Claudia. I don’t have anything against either character (I adore both greatly!), this is just a “what if?” kind of situation. This is a basic idea I had had for literal years ever since I read the books, but I didn’t do anything with it until the second season of the show started, specifically episode 10. I wasn’t immune to Harlequin Lestat, and I was FERAL about it. Sam Reid only made that worse for me (God, I am so in love with him…that man IS Lestat. He doesn’t just play him, he BECAME him, and no one else has come close. Tom Cruise and Stuart Townsend could NEVER!). The premise of the fic came to me while listening to “Written in Blood” by She Wants Revenge…one thing led to another, and here we are! Also, yes, I KNOW the vampires don’t “have sex” in the novels, but they do in the show (a LOT). I might make references to things that have happened in the books (mostly Interview with the Vampire and The Vampire Lestat, possibly a bit of Queen of the Damned) but might not have been shown in the TV series yet, so reader beware of that. Let this be the spoiler warning if you are not familiar with the books or haven’t watched the show. I am completely ignoring both movies, because they mean absolutely nothing to me now that the (far superior) show exists. The piece that fem!reader uses for her audition comes from Shakespeare’s comedy As You Like It…she is reading as Rosalind while disguised as Ganymede, and Lestat reads with her as Orlando. I thought the parallels were a nice touch. I obviously do not own the rights to As You Like It, I merely used the one scene for Y/N’s audition, and to add romantic and dramatic effect. Special shout out to my best friend Riley for their contribution and ideas!

Language: English (except for a handful of pet names and expressions used by Lestat in French, hopefully I did it correctly. I took 4 years of French in high school, but I am not fluent)

_________________________________________

It was a cool autumn night in Paris, and while mortals slept, the undead were busy welcoming their newest member to their coven inside the old auditorium. The Vampire Armand stood proudly in front of the stage, looking up at the Theatre’s founder and poster child Lestat de Lioncourt, giving him notes and stage directions he knows full well Lestat will not listen to. Next to Lestat was Y/F/N Y/L/N, a freshly turned vampire herself.

Today was Y/N’s audition to join the Theatre des Vampires, and although nervous, she felt at home already among the other thespians in the room with her. With her lifelong love of theatre and literature that only intensified in her newly immortal life, Y/N knew she was in good company. She caught herself stealing glances at Lestat, as if against her will, but she knew she couldn’t help herself. Of all the vampires in this room—the stage director and Coven leader Armand, fellow company members Eglee, Celeste, Estelle, Sam, Gustav, and Quang Pham in the seats, as well as the gifted violinist Nicki hiding in the wings—there is something captivating and enchanting about this charismatic blonde actor. Y/N felt immediately attracted to this man, and she was both alarmed by and pleased with this sudden revelation. Lestat could feel Y/N’s attraction to him, something he found adorable, endearing, distracting, and quite arousing. Lestat gazed at her, a charmingly wicked smile on his face as he admired the young vampire in front of him. Armand, annoyed but pushing the uneasy feeling down, turned to look at Y/N.

“Welcome to the Theatre, dear Y/N. The Coven and I are interested as to how you found yourself in Paris, and how you found us. Please, enlighten everyone,” Armand said, with a slight air of both curiosity and mild arrogance rolled together. Y/N quickly moved her glance from Lestat to Armand and shivered slightly before she answered.

“Hello all, my name is Y/F/N Y/L/N, and I was visiting when I was given the Dark Gift. I have been in Paris ever since. I heard about the Theatre through my maker, and through discovering the Theatre, I found out about the Coven.” As she told the truth, she felt Santiago staring daggers at her, full of amusement.

“So, little miss Y/L/N, it seems as though you enjoy the arts, is that right?” said Santiago, with a slithery snark. Y/N nodded her head. “A birdie told me that you’re auditioning with one of Shakespeare’s lesser works, yes?” Y/N nodded again. Lestat’s blueish violet eyes widened as he grinned a little bigger.

“Yes, I will be reading as Rosalind disguised as Ganymede. I hope you find it suitable,” she said politely, trying to stifle a small tinge of laughter. Santiago exaggerated his giggle to mock her slightly before speaking again.

“Hmm, I assume you would like to have someone read with you. I wonder who that could be…” Santiago’s voice trailed off as he shifted his glance from Y/N to the left of her.

The slender, blonde, and devilishly handsome vampire beside Y/N spoke before she could even have the thought to respond. Watching from the wings, the violinist Nicki put a hand to his forehead with a quiet groan.

“I volunteer myself. I know the play by heart,” said Lestat. He shot Y/N a soft but sly grin as he placed his hand on his chest, reeling in the blush that appeared on her face. Armand had to hold back a scoff as Lestat offered to read with her. “I’m quite curious to see how she does, if I may.” Lestat gently bowed as he spoke to her, with a smile on his face and intrigue in his heart. Lestat was many things, and subtle was not one of them. Y/N nodded, smiling slyly back at him.

“You may,” Y/N said, bowing slightly. Her cheeks cast a rosy glow upon them as she smiled. Santiago chuckled to himself, and Armand choked down another scoff as he looked back to Y/N and Lestat.

“As you wish. Lestat, you will read with Y/N as Orlando, starting from his entrance after Jaques exits the scene. Y/N, you will follow.” Armand crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the two vampires in front of him on the stage.

“Yes, maître,” said Y/N, slightly nervous but strangely excited about reading alongside this hauntingly tempting creature next to her. She got herself into character quickly, trying to fight off the thought of how sweet Lestat’s blood might taste on her tongue and how soft his full lips must be, among various other salacious and primal things that she wasn’t aware of that she needed or wanted. It wasn’t an unwelcome thing—Lestat had something disarmingly attractive about him. Y/N felt drawn to him somehow, but she tried in vain to hide it. Lestat cleared his throat and prepared himself as well, his own pale skin turning a faint pink as they moved to the middle of the stage. Butterflies fluttered inside their bodies as they began their scene. After a few seconds of silence passed, Lestat launched into character.

“My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.” Lestat said, remembering the lines from memory as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. Despite her nervousness and giddiness, Y/N began herself.

“Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ th’ shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.” Y/N matched Lestat’s intensity and focus as she spoke her lines. Astonished by her delivery, he carried on with his own lines.

“Pardon me, dear Rosalind,” continued Lestat, feeling a rush of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach, the pleasant sensation only growing stronger as she went on. Lestat watched her as she moved effortlessly through her audition, overcome with awe, very nearly stumbling on his own lines as a result. Armand and Santiago watched from the bottom of the stage as Y/N and Lestat kept going.

Armand watched from the front row and noticed Lestat’s immediate and oddly natural chemistry with Y/N and was well aware of the subtle attraction and quiet infatuation she felt towards Lestat. Armand could feel it through her, and it bothered him. He couldn’t help it; he began to feel his face turn green with envy. Santiago, however, was greatly amused at what was unfolding in front of them—and he relished the drama of it all. The rest of the Coven watched from the seats intently, some engrossed, some unbothered. Nicki leaned up against the wall backstage, a pained expression etched on his features. Looking on at his former lover floating across the stage with a woman whom he had only met mere hours ago and watching her fall under his spell just as he had, Nicki shook his head, a grimace forming on his face.

With all due respect, maître…maybe we should keep an eye on the new one, said Santiago, filling Armand’s head with his thoughts without moving his mouth. It’s only a matter of time before our dear founder tries to take her to bed with him…you know as well as I do how he is. And seeing how she’s looking at him—Armand did not want to hear this. Lestat and Y/N were too immersed in their scene and lost in each other to hear them through their own minds.

Armand cut him off. Enough, Santiago. I know very well how Lestat operates. Let them finish. I’ll allow Y/N to continue, for now. We shall decide what measures to take when the time is right… As Armand and Santiago sized Y/N up, she breezed through her audition.

“Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now an I were your very, very Rosalind?” Y/N continued as she blushed and smiled at Lestat. Anything he did in his impromptu performance, she followed with masterful skill.

Lestat slowly walked closer to her, his gaze never leaving her eyes. Lestat looked at Y/N, smirking as he brushed some of his long blonde hair behind his ear. He let the silence expand for a second before he continued.

“I would kiss before I spoke.”

Lestat and Y/N gazed at each other as if they were the only beings in the room, amusing Santiago morbidly and annoying Armand profoundly. A mixture of admiration and a deep hunger formed inside Lestat’s chest, and Y/N’s heart pounded against her ribcage. She gulped quietly as she tried to keep up with Lestat. Determined to give the best audition she could despite having to act opposite the most gorgeous creature she has ever laid her eyes on, alive or dead, Y/N tried to fight off her own desire building within her. Soft gasps could be heard from the other vampires watching them from the seats.

“Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.”

Sensing Y/N’s struggle to maintain her composure, Lestat met her energy with his own words. “How if the kiss be denied?” He looked at her for a beat, cocking his head to one side quizzically. Y/N answered him with a playful shrug.

“Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.”

Lestat continued his teasing, delighted by the thrill Y/N gave him. “Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?”

Y/N pretended to scoff. “Marry, that should you if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.”

Lestat looked at Y/N with a look of mock surprise. “What, of my suit?” he said, his voice harboring a more sensual tone this time.

“Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am I not your Rosalind?” Y/N floated across the stage like a ghost, every single movement calculated and carried out so smoothly.

“I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.” Lestat’s face reddened slightly as he noticed how Y/N’s jaw dropped, but only for a second before she kept going.

“Well, in her person I say I will not have you.” Y/N let out an exaggerated giggle as she playfully spun around slowly.

A dramatic sigh escaped Lestat’s lungs. “Then in mine own person I die.” He looked back at Y/N as she turned to face him again.

“By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come; now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it.” Y/N gazed at the vampire in front of her, only inches separating them now. Lestat reached out to gently caress Y/N’s cheek as they looked deeply into each other’s eyes, making her blush even more obvious in her face now. He has her right where he wants her, and as fate or some other mystical thing would have it, Y/N is right where she wants to be. Once again, Lestat drew the silence out for a beat too long before he spoke.

“Then love me, Rosalind.”

Y/N’s voice trembled a little as she leaned into Lestat’s touch. His unbroken focus on her made her feel slightly faint just from the way he looked at her, but she kept her cool as best as she could. “Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.” She shyly smiled up at him, trying and failing to hide her quiet swooning.

Lestat hung on to every word that left her lips as if he had never heard such language spoken before. Of course, he was no stranger to the stage himself, having been the Theatre’s main selling point for a few years now. The act of performing on a stage in front of an enamored audience always thrilled him, but she…she was different. This new and sudden but pleasant feeling cut him way deeper, hit him harder—he knew that she was something magical. And Lestat wasn’t quite sure where to put that desire and hunger, so he decided to do the thing he does best: he needed to have her all to himself, by any means necessary. Lestat was delighted to find that the feeling was so clearly mutual.

Santiago watched Lestat enchant Y/N as they continued with their performances. He gasped quietly as he saw Lestat become smitten with Y/N, rolling his eyes. Just look at those two! Can you believe them? They’ve made eyes at each other from the second she came through the door. They’ve only just met a few hours ago and he’s looking at her like Venus de Milo herself…and she looks as if she’s about to melt through the floor. Armand found himself becoming more and more annoyed as Lestat and Y/N carried on like they were, and Santiago took notice. Maître, you’re grinding your teeth…

Armand huffed quietly. I said let them continue. Y/N is smarter than we realize. If she doesn’t know who she’s getting herself tied up with, she will. I can guarantee that. Armand maintained his mildly annoyed expression as he crossed his arms over his chest. I see potential in her. We can use that potential.

Santiago, ever the drama queen but also the suck-up, tried to push Armand’s buttons. How shall we do that, maître? I wonder what our violinist has to say about this…I can’t imagine he’s especially thrilled about—

Armand cut him off once again. Be silent now, Santiago. Nicki is the least of my worries right now.

Now mildly aware of the growing discomfort in the pit of Armand’s stomach and Santiago’s antagonizing of him, Lestat continued to read with Y/N. He was enraptured by her, this was true—but he also found quite a bit of amusement in making Armand uncomfortable. Y/N, less aware of the effect her performance is having on the Coven leader and his all-too-willing sidekick, matched him masterfully.

“And wilt thou have me?” said Lestat, sultry and low.

Y/N nodded her head and smiled. “Ay, and twenty such.”

Lestat felt his heart flutter in his chest as he moved closer to her. “What sayest thou?”

Y/N gently bit her lip then let it go with a smirk. “Are you not good?”

“I hope so.” Lestat rolled his eyes in a sassy manner.

“Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?” Y/N went on, closing the small space between herself and Lestat.

The vaguely pained expression did not escape Armand’s face. Still wanting to maintain some sort of order and power over his Coven, Armand kept his focus fixed on the two vampires on the stage in front of him.

Santiago, an evil grin taking shape over his features, watched Lestat and Y/N’s bond become deeper by the second as Y/N continued. “Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando.” Y/N gently reached for Lestat’s hand, and he placed it in hers, tangling their fingers together. She looked to where the audience would be sitting. “What do you say sister?” Y/N looked back up at Lestat as he gazed back at her, their vampire eyes blown out with love and desire for each other.

After what felt like an eternity, Lestat put his finger under Y/N’s chin and gingerly tilted her head up. He started to move down to press his lips to hers, and she moved up to meet him. He closed his eyes, and her eyelids fluttered shut as his lips gently—

A groan could be heard from Armand as Santiago abruptly rose from his seat and applauded loudly. Lestat and Y/N snapped out of their trance and pulled away from each other, no longer able to hide their blushing. The rest of the Coven began to applaud as well. The vampires Sam and Gustav were enthusiastic in their encouragement of the new potential member of the Coven and her undeniable and palpable chemistry with their Theatre’s founder. Celeste looked on with a proud smile on her face, while Estelle clapped wildly. Eglee rolled her eyes before eventually joining in with her applause. Backstage, Nicki shook his head again as he quietly left the auditorium, quietly cursing under his breath.

“Very well done, Y/N. Very well done indeed,” said Santiago, sounding giddier than he probably should. He looked at Armand. “What say you, maître?” he asked with mock amusement.

Armand once again did not listen. He looked up at Y/N as Lestat released her from his gentle but bold embrace. “Exquisite work, Y/N. Exceptional. While we evaluate your performance, you are welcome to remain here with the Coven. We have provided a coffin for you near your maker’s.” Armand started to dismiss everyone before he turned back to Y/N. “We do expect you to keep our hours, curfew is three o’clock sharp.” He shot a subtle but menacing glare at Lestat. Lestat rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself as he turned his back to him. Armand looked at Y/N again. Lestat smiled warmly at Y/N as he winked at her.

Still reeling from everything that just occurred, Y/N nodded and bowed. “Yes maître, I will. Thank you all.” Armand dismissed Santiago and the rest of the Coven, and they all left the auditorium.

It was then that Y/N heard a sensual and seductive voice inside her head.

Très bien fait, ma chérie. I’m impressed.

Y/N turned around to find Lestat leaning against the piano on the stage, his arms crossed over his chest, looking her up and down, dripping with genuine curiosity and insatiable desire. She blushed and smiled as she met his gaze.

“That’s very sweet of you to say, Lestat. It really means a lot to hear.” Y/N walked over to him, slightly nervous but not at all deterred. “You were amazing yourself.”

Lestat rolled his eyes playfully at her compliment but accepted it. “You flatter me, mon amour.” He stood up straight and walked over to her, looking down at her with that softly sly smirk again. “I must say, my dear Y/N, you are quite the actress. Many have come and gone from this theatre, but none have bewitched me so like you have, ma petite fleur.”

Y/N swooned at his words, slightly taken aback by the sincerity in them despite the obvious attraction. “Oh, you’re too kind. It’s not often I’m in the presence of someone so…” She caught herself getting lost in his eyes again—something she has by now realized is very easy to do—before she continued. “So…enchanting as you.”

Lestat chuckled lowly. “Is that so? Well, you have captivated me too, love,” he said, pausing briefly as he took the sight of her in. “I haven’t seen such talent on this stage in quite some time, Y/N.” She blushed deeper as she took a second to gather her thoughts. Y/N sighed softly before speaking.

“Thank you! I’m just happy that I can finally do what I love to do. Up until today, I thought it was unfortunate that I couldn’t do this kind of thing when I was mortal, but I don’t have that feeling now that I’m here. In an odd way, it feels right like this.” Y/N chuckled lightly.

Lestat listened to her words intently. “I know that feeling very well, mon coeur. For what it’s worth, I’m quite glad you wandered into our midst. I can see already that you’re passionate about the Theatre, and it’s refreshing. You’re simply lovely.” Y/N smiled at his words of admiration and encouragement. “I cannot wait to see what other talents you possess, if you don’t mind my saying so,” he said with a smirk, appreciating the slight drop of her jaw. Noticing the positive tension on her face, Lestat spoke gently to her. “Oh, and don’t be nervous, chérie. There is nothing to be afraid of. I have no doubt you’ll fit in here, I am sure of it.” He traced her jawline affectionately before tilting her head up to bring her eyes to meet his, just like he did during her audition. “And, if I may be so bold, I would love to get to know you better. If you’ll have me, of course.” Y/N’s eyes widened as she swooned. She nodded as she stuttered slightly.

“I’d love to, Lestat. I would be honored.” Y/N felt her heart jump into her mouth. The gorgeous blonde vampire in front of her reveled in how flustered she looked as he spoke to her.

“Very well then, dear Y/N. We’ll continue our little conversation after your initiation tomorrow.”

Y/N gulped. “My…my what?!”

Lestat giggled slyly. “You heard me correctly, ma chérie. Welcome to the Theatre, darling. You’re one of us now as far as I’m concerned.”

“But…Armand said—” Lestat gently placed a finger over her lips to shut her up as he spoke lowly to her, sultry and dripping with desire.

“Shh, ma jolie fille…never mind what that manipulative gremlin Armand said.” Lestat let his finger gently drag across her bottom lip before letting it go. He brushed some of her hair behind her ear as he continued. “I’ll be seeing you backstage afterwards, yes?”

There was no way for him to be coy about his appetite for her any more than he had earlier. The vampire Lestat de Lioncourt, the Brat Prince himself, was anything but shy about his unquenchable thirst for Y/N; it only grew exponentially in the few hours since he met her.

Y/N felt as though the air had been knocked out of her lungs as she nodded. “Of course, Lestat. You will.” She smiled at him, trying to regulate her breathing.

Lestat smiled wickedly at her again. “Très bien, mon amour. I’ll see you then.” He caressed her face again before turning to walk away. “Bonne nuit, ma belle. Sweet dreams.”

Y/N could feel her heart pounding in her throat as she smiled. “Good night, Lestat. I hope you sleep well.” Blushing, she beamed at him, and he smiled back, a blush of his own on his face.

With that, they left the room. As she lifted the lid to her coffin next to the others to crawl inside it, Y/N gasped as she heard Lestat’s voice in her head again, stopping her momentarily.

Remember what I told you, ma petite fleur. There is nothing to worry your pretty little head with. And know this too, my darling: I don't bite...hard.

[silkstockingss]

armand is a single man now so i’d like some armand x fem!reader fics plzzzz 🙏🏼🙃😭

[loppsided]

l. de lioncourt as your boyfriend

summary: headcanons for boyfriend lestat

pairing: lestat de lioncourt x reader

wc: 302

warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of death/killing

a/n: writing for the best fictional vampire yep! again, requests are open, send something for any character on my masterlist! likes and reblogs appreciated.

you were turned by lestat after louis almost killed you (like claudia) and he was immediately enamored by you

buying you elaborate and expensive gifts to please you

teaching you how to play the piano and any other instrument you were interested in

him opening up to you about how he was turned, talking about how it was, being by himself

you and him growing closer that night as you consoled him

you him and louis going to fancy balls and rich parties together to find some rude upperclassmen to dine on

him helping you with the initial guilt of killing after becoming a vampire

you sharing the same hunger as him so he quickly see's himself in you

sharing a coffin together, you holding on to him as you slept while he played in your hair

a very gentle kisser, takes your chin with his fingers and tilts your head up to grasp your lips

slow dancing to orchestral music

having to deal with his anger outbursts every once and while, calming him down and reassuring him everything would be ok

him taking you to paris, milan, tokyo, anywhere you wanted to go

reading together in the huge library he built for you

him getting you the most expensive and high quality dresses or suits

him comforting you when you talk about how much you miss seeing the sun

going to plays together, laughing loudly in the back at how silly they are

him telling you everything he knows from his many years of being alive, never failing to keep you interested as he details his endeavors

you initially having a hard time getting along with him, but slowly warming up to him

debating current issues to keep yourselves entertained since nights can be boring

being spoiled by him constantly

[mrsknowitallll]

*PREVIEW*

Summer Soft

(Louis De Pointe Du Lac x Black Plus Size OC)

Summary - Louis decides to settle down in the countryside. After all the turmoil that his life has been these past few decades he just wants peace and quiet away from it all. He stumbles upon a lovely lady who welcomes him into her home with open arms. They both find solace in each other unexpectedly.

Coming soon…

A/N - I’ve had this idea written down for such a longgg time, way before i started this account and i thought that it was finally time to put it out. OBSESSED with Louis and IWTV as a whole actually. Part one coming very soon 😙

[farfromstrange]

Interview With The Vampire | Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader

-> Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader (she/her)

Summary: You are the first journalist to interview Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vampire vigilante after he requested you personally to tell his story. He’s offering you a way out of your miserable job—to make your voice be heard. You’re desperate and curious, so you decide to take the risk. Most people only know him as Daredevil, but you are about to learn who’s really behind the mask. How hard can it possibly be? As it turns out, interviewing a vampire is a lot more complex than you expected it to be, and Matthew Michael Murdock has set his mind on ruining you for any other man to come.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), alternative universe, blood play, marking, scent kink, slight Dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, biting, vampirism, angst, religious imagery & symbolism, Catholic guilt, mentions of violence, allusions to suicidal thoughts, lots of plot, age gap

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

Other Characters: Vampire!Elektra (mentioned), Ben Urich (mentioned)

A/n: I finally got this one edited. This is a beast, y’all! I drew inspiration from Anne Rice’s Interview With The Vampire, but particularly the 2022 AMC series (I fell in love with it then and there), but it’s not based on it, so I just played around with the idea and this came out. It’s a lot, but it wasn’t enough for a full-blown series, so you’re getting a big ass One Shot instead. I used my usual Smut tag list, but since this is slightly Dead Dove Do Not Eat, heed the warnings and proceed with care! Don't read it if you don't want to. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Read Me On AO3!

The sun has long set over the Big Apple. Artificial neon, cars, and ceiling lights burning in the highrises along the riverfront cancel out the darkness that has befallen the country’s east. Noise melts into a flood that rolls over people’s senses, but most in New York City have grown numb to the city that never sleeps. 

Sirens follow cacophonies of screams. Teenagers get into clubs with their fake IDs, adults get drunk in bars or go to work the night shift at their underpaid jobs, and the other half cry themselves to sleep, knowing they will have to get up in the morning and go through the same hell all over again. 

Life has become a miserable existence, and it leaves human beings wondering, ‘How much longer do we have to endure this before we all finally drop dead?’

The system fails them. The law fails to protect them. All they can do is lie down and wait to die. And they will die sooner or later. That’s inevitable. 

In Hell’s Kitchen, in a penthouse with a view of the Hudson through colored windows that gloss over during the day and show the city throughout the night, resides someone who most of the city only knows by an alias—Daredevil. 

If anyone crosses him, he will suck them dry. It’s not a metaphor, I’m afraid; his reputation precedes him. Criminals fear the red eyes that come with fists and a sharp set of teeth that will surely run them into the ground. The rest of the city feels a little safer with him, but so far, no one has dared to question his nature. 

Fear is known to work as a paralytic. And this man living in the penthouse by the Hudson is the personification of what one might consider fear-inducing. Without the fear of others, he would not be thriving. 

An apex predator like him lives for the thrill of the kill. When the adrenaline spikes, it makes the prey start running and the blood taste so much sweeter. It is to a creature of his kind what a good glass of century-old red wine would be to a human being; he savors every last drop of it.

Two years out of your Master’s degree at Columbia University, you have become one of those hard-working adults who fall into bed later than they should, and you lie awake at night, wondering how much longer you have to exist before you can live.

You interned at the Bulletin; you ran the true crime and mystery column for over a year before the newspaper shut down. A billionaire from downtown Manhattan bought it to start his own magazine, and you were the only employee he didn’t fire. Instead of relying on your top-tier education and experience though, he has banned you to the lifestyle and beauty column. He’s a beast if you have ever seen one. 

On a Monday in June then, after the sun has risen and is now falling again, you find an envelope on your desk. You glide your fingers over the fancy paper. The letters are written in handwriting that resembles the old letters from the 18th century you had the pleasure of using as research material for your Bachelor’s thesis.

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

Over two decades ago, scientists published papers on the existence of blood-sucking creatures after years of valuable research, and now governments around the world have set out to burn the inhuman species out before they can cause any more damage. Vampirism though is older than humanity itself and unless law enforcement has evidence of homicide, vampires have the right to exist amongst humans. 

They are excellent at hiding their true nature, that much is true. The lore that has been passed down since the beginning of time is only partly true. They know how to adapt and rise from the ashes like elegant phoenixes. The misconceptions surrounding their existence stem from fiction, horror, and fear, but they persist. 

And a rule has been established in society ever since the truth was revealed: don’t talk about vampires! 

Don’t talk about them unless it’s in a fictional context. Don’t put your research out there. Don’t fraternize with them. Don’t risk becoming prey. Don’t be fascinated by them, and God forbid, don’t you dare write articles about them for the public records. If you want to know about vampires, you have to dig, and you have to do so quietly or society will deem you crazy and a freak. 

The worst thing to be is not a flying android or a super soldier with a shield; the worst thing you can be, in this day and age, is a vampire. 

You were a curious child who turned into an even more curious adult. At times even a bitter one because she couldn’t get the answers she yearned for and had to do it herself. So, of course, the We Don’t Talk About Vampires rule came across as rather absurd, learning about it back when you were merely a teen. 

You started researching, and you found out more than you thought you would—more than you thought you could. You wanted to cover the issue in the Bulletin back when you still worked there, but since humans were raised to fear the very mention of vampires in the real world, no longer romanticizing the concept but rather running from it, the truth shall remain hidden. Again, that seemed absurd, but you had to accept it to get ahead. 

You kept researching to the point you convinced yourself you could be one of them if you tried. You felt like you understood them, but nothing could ever fully answer all of your questions to the point it felt truthful. Honest. Real. 

Growing up, everyone told you dead things aren’t supposed to walk. They aren’t supposed to breathe and exist among the living. They are cruel, and vampires are killers that leave trails of bodies the government is hiding from us. Greediness exceeds common sense. The human mind tends to get sick and twisted, and those who don’t fit in hardly ever stand a chance.

Hell’s Kitchen is particularly quiet on the issue. Rumor has it that the vigilante chasing criminals at night and leaving the worst of them dry at the shore of the Hudson while, at the same time, surrendering those he deems worthy of rehabilitation to the authorities, is one of those vampires. 

They call him Daredevil; the savior of innocents and the downfall of the vile. Only a handful of people know who he is. The truth is caught in a spider web of lies, unable to come out unless someone were to tell his story for the world to hear. 

That Monday in June when you open the mysterious envelope on your desk, everything changes. 

He addressed you personally. Your name resembles a masterpiece, the letters swirling at the edges. 

You don’t know me, but I know you.

It’s strange to read your name out of the mouth of a stranger.

I must admit, Miss, I’m a big fan of your writing. And I’m not talking about the lifestyle and beauty column Mr. Doherty of the ‘Silver Lining’ has confined you to.

No, I am a big fan of the work you used to do for the New York Bulletin. I remember your name headlining many articles on crime here in Hell’s Kitchen—a column my late friend Ben Urich used to call his home.  

It’s a shame that the paper was shut down. I tried to prevent it, but the disappearance of half of humanity and Wilson Fisk’s irreparable damage to the city’s foundation tied my hands. 

The token female journalist reporting on unsolicited beauty advice and lifestyle choices no one is going to follow in the days of social media and fake marketing. It must be frustrating, right? Not having a story to tell. Not getting recognized for your impeccable talent. The Bulletin gave you a platform, but Mr. Doherty and his goons took that away from you.

What I’m asking myself is, are you satisfied? You were probably imagining a different future for yourself. A woman of your caliber must want to be more than a mere object used to make a bottomless magazine look better on the market. 

Excuse my overstepping. I read one of your essays on the magical and the mythic—lore versus reality—the other day, and it inspired me. My life has been taking quite a few turns lately, so I required some new… let’s call it insight. 

You don’t know me, but I am one of those creatures you are fascinated by. I’m the kind of creature people have been telling you not to write about because the weak minds of the public would not receive it well. The Catholics, the church, the fragile and fearful human beings that can’t imagine anything in fiction being real and want to remain the superior species—trust me, I know what it feels like to be backed into a corner. To be abandoned. To be underestimated. Not quite like you, I admit, but I have a few years of experience in and with this world to show for myself. 

I imagine you’re tired of your position. I imagine you’re dissatisfied with human idiocy. You crave answers to your questions. Questions you have been asking yourself ever since college failed to answer them. My kind is being censored—partly for good reason—but that doesn’t sit right with you, does it? To live life in a monotone line with no clear way out of this boring rhythm you have had to fall into? 

I can offer you a different path. A story. Answers to your questions. And the unfiltered truth of a 242-year-old man. 

You are going to find a card with my address attached to this letter. I can assure you, sweetheart, we both want the same thing. I will wash your hands if you wash mine. Think about it, and come find me when you have made your decision. Preferably after the sun has set. 

Yours sincerely,

M.

The paper crumbles in your hands, but only at the corners. Your eyes are glued to the lost drops of ink, the blue blood of an old fountain pen caving under too much pressure. 

He chose his words carefully. Every paragraph circles around your head. You breathe in, and it suddenly feels as though the whiff of the unknown is an inhalable drug, twisting your brain inside out. 

The pull threatens to submerge you in a stormy ocean. You’re flailing your arms around helplessly, but there is nothing for you to hold onto. All buoys have drifted into oblivion, leaving a sea of utter emptiness behind, and in the midst of it, there you are, drowning.

In a moment of clarity, you fold the letter back down on the desk. It lands with a thud, and you look around frantically, checking if anyone is watching you. They aren’t. 

M. That’s all he’s giving you. And the fact he is over two hundred years old proves the rumors to be true. He’s standing by it, but only to you. He wants to reveal himself to you, show you his true face for a story, but he’s a vampire. 

You’re alone. You can wash his hands, but is just showing up enough for him? You don’t even know him. 

You’re in trouble. This time though, you didn’t even do anything. You did your job, and he caught an interest in you. How does that work? 

Your heart skips another beat. It should not, but it does. The danger is exciting. It shouldn't be exciting. You hate what your body is doing, but how can you make it stop? You can’t. You can’t do anything but take it.

This stranger has got you in a chokehold, but in his hands, you might as well surrender to your certain demise. You don’t consider vampires inherently evil, but there is a reason people warn you not to walk alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s dangerous, no matter his nature, and he is not supposed to lure you in the way he does.

But you’re a curious kitten, and he is offering you the holy grail of answers to questions you have been grappling with for years. He hit the nail right on the head. And it doesn’t even scare you how well he knows you. 

This is a gold mine. Realistically speaking, telling a vampire’s story could make or break your career as a journalist. If you do it for the magazine, you’re done before you can even bring your words to print, but if you do it individually and you do it well, people will certainly eat it up. The question is just, are you going to play your entire life safe, conforming to your boss’s view of you until you get the freedom you crave, or are you going to take the risk and fly? 

The answer is as clear as day, but it takes you a moment to process. It’s as though someone is in your head, steering you in the direction of whoever this M is. Daredevil. This vampire who wants you to interview him, and for what? That’s still an open question you don’t have the answer to. But you do know what to do.

You scramble for your laptop, your notepad, and the letter in the envelope. The clock strikes four. You have another two hours on the clock, but you can’t be bothered to stay. 

Upon hearing the sound of your shoes hurriedly scraping against the linoleum floors, one of your colleagues turns in her chair. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“I, uh, have somewhere to be,” you tell her as you brush past her.

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

You stop on your way out, looking back over your shoulder. “If everything works out,” you say, glancing through the window to his office at the other end of the hall, “He’ll have my letter of resignation by the end of the week.”

She gasps softly. “You’re quitting?” her voice is barely above a whisper.

Almost sinisterly, you chuckle. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“But—”

“Tell your daughter Happy Birthday from me. I gotta go.”

Your steps echo for minutes still, but you are long gone with the wind.

Silver linings are considered an advantage that comes from an unpleasant situation. The name has proven to be entirely unfit for the magazine that replaced a big piece of Hell’s Kitchen’s history. The Bulletin had cultural value as much as it was laden with decades of the city’s stories told to the average person. 

Wilson Fisk was the dynamite that sent New York alight. The Bulletin’s destruction was mere collateral damage in the fight to get the city back on track. You have had so many reasons to leave presented to you, yet you never took them. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t be here, making bad decisions on what started as just another Monday in June. 

The fact is though, you didn’t leave, and you are here now. Facts are what matter. They count. Your hypothetical past, present, and future have no place in this reality because you can’t travel back or forward in time. Vampires may exist, and the Avengers time-traveled to save the world, but things aren’t quite as easy once you look at the bigger picture. You are not a superhero, you’re just a journalist chasing the kind of story that will finally make her voice be heard. 

You know that Ben Urich, at least, would be proud of you.

His address weighs heavy on the small card you pulled out of the envelope earlier that evening. You passed it on to the cab driver, and he began to navigate the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The luxury condominiums in this part of the city can be counted on one hand. You know exactly when you’re there. 

The sun has once again set over New York City. You’re wide awake, not quite sure though if you’re ready to face what you are walking blindly into. Even your driver refuses to take you past a certain point, and that is how you know that you’re not dreaming. This is real, and it’s supposed to be terrifying. 

How come you’re not scared then?

You slip twenty dollars to the cab driver, then climb out of the backseat. The salty air from the Hudson River a few blocks down wafts around your sensitive nose. In the distance, you can hear waves crashing into the docks as the wind picks up in speed. The boats must be moving wildly by now, swaying from side to side and possibly even making the fish in the depths of the water seasick. You would be if you were them. 

With every step, you grow closer to your target. On second thought, maybe you should have brought more than just a pathetic bottle of pepper spray and your precious laptop. You could have brought your grandfather’s cassette recorder, at least that would leave a mark if you hit someone over the head with it. 

Do vampires get concussions? That is another question you can add to the seemingly endless list in your mind. It’s a confusing place as of late, and the weird sense that someone is playing with the controls won’t leave you alone. Either you are overthinking, or you are worse off than you originally thought. 

The apartment complex the card directs you to stretches high above you. You look up, seeing not a single light on. That’s odd, you think, but then again, you are meeting with the city’s most notorious man. If he is who everyone says he is, and if the rumors are even true, that is. 

As you are about to approach the entrance, your fingertips start to burn. A gasp escapes past your lips. Staring down, the cubical piece of paper goes up in flames. You are mere feet from the door, nowhere near close to an open source of fire, and the card starts to burn like a wildfire. 

You pull back, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The ashes fall to the ground, but before they can hit the asphalt, they vanish.

“What the–” before you can finish, the doors before you swing open toward the inside. The lights turn on. Someone even has called the elevator for you. 

Another step forward, and a voice stops you. “Fourth floor, down the hallway, first door to your right,” the voice says through the speaker. Only then do you notice the lack of a doorbell. 

Everything in you is screaming for you to run, but you are rooted in the spot. He dragged you here with a mere letter, and you were more than ready to jump. Desperation was the only thing that drove you here. Your brain seems incapable of rational thought.

What if that is what he wanted all along? To get you complicit by playing on what you so desperately need, which is a story and a way out of this boring everyday life that is threatening to slowly kill you.

He’s like a siren, luring you into his deadly trap, but even knowing all of this, you still can’t find it in yourself to run. 

The second you enter the building, the door shuts behind you, and your only way out is officially locked. You made the decision; you have dug your own grave, possibly quite literally, and now you have to lie in it. It’s better to die chasing a good story than dying at a desk in an office that doesn’t respect you.

You are a disgrace, you can hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind. He always warned you not to be too reckless or your bad decisions will eventually catch up with you. He always taught you not to trust strangers, and to stay the hell away from those who disgrace God, but you have never cared much about being a good girl. 

Your thoughts are as morbid as your obsession with the walking undead. It is time you embrace what people are already saying about you.

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. It goes up and up and up until it finally stops on the fourth floor. The walls smell like nothing but a faint hint of bleach. It’s clean, parquette not carpet, and the walls are kept in a shade resembling a mixture between crimson and maroon, and it is blending into a sort of marble.

The metal doors slide open. Again, you hesitate. A sweet whisper echoes in your ear, dragging you toward the edge. You breach the border between the elevator and the hallway that waits behind it. The voice is distant, and it doesn’t sound human—it reminds you of a siren’s song, calling for you. He is calling for you, and a fog settles over your mind. You’re not in control anymore, he is. 

You imagine him to be an old man, possibly middle-aged. Vampires stop aging when they’re turned. Their mind doesn’t. You’ve read the research plenty. They are wise beings, more intelligent than human beings could ever fathom. That makes them dangerous. 

Their venom rivals the intoxicating feeling of heroin, you’ve heard, and it heightens your senses to the point all you can feel is the one who bit you. Research suggests it’s a million times stronger than an orgasm, for both the vampire and the human being. 

Part of you has always wanted to try it. Part of you wants to know what it feels like to be sucked dry. You want to know what it feels like to be carried into a new dimension by someone who knows how to play the human body like a fucking piano, eliciting the sweetest melody through your very essence and the symphony of your moans.  

This M—Daredevil—is inherently dangerous. He’s as mysterious as they come; a man in a mask lurking in the dark corners of Hell’s Kitchen every night, turning the fight for justice into his hunting ground. 

It’s as though he curled his fingers, and you followed. 

You walk the dark hallway down to the door on the right. Paintings litter the walls. Masterpieces, blotches of white, red, and color. You recognize the red marble as a decorative theme on the wallpaper. Tracing your fingers over it, the rough drywall scratches at your skin. 

You reach out a shaky hand toward the golden knob. Before you can turn it though, the door already flings open. It must be witchcraft. 

Red appears to be his favorite color. At least judging from the hallway, that is true. When you step into the room with a pounding heart and blood pooling in your cheeks though, the inside of the room is a lot more… human. You wouldn’t have guessed it from the gloominess surrounding you on your way there.

A leather couch and armchairs stand in the middle, facing toward the window front. Colored windows, as you have gathered from the rumors. They are see-through now though, showing the city skyline and the moon up high. The chandelier on the ceiling is the only piece of furniture you would consider old. Browns meet hues of blue and dark green, a forest at midnight, and you suck in a sharp breath. The apartment is beautiful. 

You look to your left and see a bookshelf stretching the length of the wall. You can’t help but run your hand over the backs. You would have expected original editions from the 18th or 19th century, but when your fingers trace over the bindings, you are met with the bulging of Braille underneath the elegant golden writing of the titles. None of them seem to have collected dust. It surprises you to only find a mere handful of classics that haven’t been transcribed in Braille and a realization you did not expect starts to crawl its way forward.

“I stole that one from a library in Paris.”

Your racing heart stops beating. The book you’ve been holding falls to the ground, its worn-out leather cracking further around the spine. The thud is deafening. You gasp, turning around. Your shoulders fly up as the tension ripples through every last muscle in your bone. Your bones ache just from how stiff you’re standing, but you can’t move.

The man before you moves as quietly as a mouse. You didn’t hear him coming. The moonlight reflects off his dark brown hair, making it appear almost ginger. He’s wearing a simple suit without a tie, and the white of his shirt is as pristine and clean as the cut of his beard. You can see chest hair poking out from underneath the two open buttons, as dark as the locks on his head. His jawline is irresistibly sharp, leading up to a pair of plump lips he is wrapping around the brim of a crystal glass filled with rum.

Your heart remains frozen. Not a single drop of blood pumps through your veins, yet your cheeks burn brighter than a bonfire on a pitch-black night. 

But his flawless appearance is not what catches your attention the most. Looking up into his eyes, wanting to know whether they are as red as those set into the devil’s mask, you find nothing but your terrified reflection staring back at you. It’s as blurry as the picture of your face in a still ocean’s water, your wide eyes staring back at yourself. 

The red glasses are all you can see. Round with a black rim. Silver would have looked better on him, or maybe even gold. The black reminds you of an endless pit, a sinister embrace of vampire stereotypes, but you can’t look away from the maroon that won’t allow you even a glimpse into his eyes. They are shielding him from the world, and his eyes from curious, stupid humans like you.

He nods toward the ground. “You gonna pick that up?” he asks. His voice reminds you of rumbling gravel. 

He looks like a man. He talks like a man. If you didn’t know better, you would say he is human. There seems to be blood in his cheeks and air in his lungs. 

You have to pull yourself together. Clearing your throat, you bend down and pick the book back up.

“Thank you,” he utters your name. “It’s been a while since I’ve received visitors that don’t work for me.”

You put the book back on the shelf. Your lips are sewn shut; you can’t find the words. Every time you open your mouth like a fish on dry land, you close it again, and it is embarrassing to be standing in front of him with your guard down. 

“Welcome to my home,” he says. You wish you could see his eyes to know if he’s mocking you. “Do you want a drink, or do you need another minute to process?”

He is mocking you. His tone is gentle, as is his voice, but he smirks like a smug motherfucker, and your anger boils to a tipping point. The candle is about to burn out. 

“I–” you stammer. Internally, you curse yourself for being such a fool. 

“Another minute it is then.”

You don’t need a minute though. “You’re blind,” you blurt out. 

The beautiful—deadly—stranger nods. “Yeah.“

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

“But you’re…” you leave the missing part of that sentence hanging in the air like a noose. 

“Say it,” he murmurs. You want to say it sounds like a growl, but you’re not sure. He isn’t asserting dominance or trying to force you into submission by scaring you away, but he is toying with you regardless. 

You take a deep breath. The word, the truth, numbers your tongue and your lips with its weight. “A vampire,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, matching his. 

His smirk broadens. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, then releases it as it darts out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m a blind vampire, yes,” he answers. “We’re rare, but we do exist.”

Blind vampires. In all of your years of fascination, that has never crossed your mind. You used to believe that they had healing abilities that far exceeded your own. You were wrong. He lost his eyesight before he got turned into a vampire. He lived as a blind human being and didn’t regain his most crucial sense when he died. 

He came back to life, but he died. It is surreal to stand across from him. He’s not just letters on a piece of paper, he is very much real. And he’s blind. 

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

That elicits a soft chuckle from him. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he says. 

“I was considering not to.” 

He sees right through you with those empty glasses. “That’s a lie.”

“How would you know?” you counter. 

“I can hear your heartbeat. The blood pumping in your veins…” His head tilts ever so slightly in your direction. You take a step back. It’s an instinct. “Your pulse picks up when you lie, or when you’re nervous, or both,” he states. “When you first saw me, your heart skipped a beat. It did again when you lied to me.”

Your eyes trail down to his thick thighs perfectly fitted in his tailored trousers. His thick digits pat the rhythm with his fingers on the fabric. Thud-thudthudthud-thud. You place a hand on your chest. He wasn’t wrong; your heart is racing. 

His smirk turns into a smile, but only briefly again. It’s a glimpse of humanity he doesn’t want you to see. “I like that sound,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell good? Sweet, sour, and a little salty. Natural. You don’t use a lot of artificial perfume, but you like cherry chapstick.”

You swallow, taking a whiff of your arm. Besides your deodorant masking the scent of your nervous sweat, you smell nothing. How good must his nose be? His hearing? His sense of taste? 

“Right now, sweat is dripping down your back, and your muscles are tense enough to strain against your bones every time you breathe. Your heart just skipped a beat again. You find it weird,” he muses. “I can’t turn it off, but I get it must be strange for you.” 

“You–” The blood has collected in your head, pushing the temperature in the room to an all-time high. “Get out of my body!” you snap. 

He laughs. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.”

“And I never thought you would ask for an audience with me, but here we are.”

“Here you are.” 

You want nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face. He looks so smug, standing there with his drink, wearing a suit too fancy for his own home. He’s fully in his element. It’s scary how alluring he is, too. You don’t want to think that way, but as soon as your eyes gaze upon him again, your chest contracts, and you forget how to breathe. 

He’s a wolf, and you’re a lonely little sheep that doesn’t know any better. That lonely little sheep just wants to be a part of something bigger, even if that means surrendering herself to the big bad wolf. He wants a taste of her, and the sheep would give him that in a heartbeat if he just asked. 

You blink. There is a voice in your head, and it isn’t your own. Far from it. You don’t want to be associated with this stranger. She thinks she knows you. She thinks she knows what you want—the sheep in the eyes of her natural enemy. This voice is the most irrational you could be, and you need to stop letting her win.

And yet you—not just the voice of the lonely sheep you appear to be—would follow this man anywhere, even to hell if he asked you to. 

Your eyes drill knives into his skull, but they are also full of curiosity. Can he hear your thoughts? Your heart beats in your throat. You can taste it on your tongue. If you bit your lip, you would bleed, and he would probably fall into a frenzy. Still, your teeth dig into your bottom lip. What if he can hear your thoughts—hear how fucking needy you are? You’re pathetic. What he must think of you, standing across from him, smaller than human life itself. 

You want to read him, but he is far from an open book. He’s not Braille you can run your fingers over, and even if he was, you don’t know how to read it. He’s an enigma. His face is set in stone; an iron mask you can’t penetrate. 

His chest heaves with another chuckle. He sets the crystal glass down on the coffee table, taking a step forward. “No, I can’t read your mind,” he says. 

You flinch. “What?”

“Your breathing pattern. The way you look at me. I can sense that you’re thinking about something.” He adjusts his glasses. “It’s just… Most humans ask me if I can read their minds, you know. I can’t. Some vampires can, but my senses are the only heightened ability I have.” This time, when he chuckles, a hint of bitterness dances in his voice. 

“At least you’re not in my head then,” you say. 

“No.”

“Good.”

A pregnant pause follows. You clutch your bag to your chest, your fingers digging into the frame of your hidden laptop. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, pointing to his empty glass.

You wave him off. That’s the last thing on your mind. “No, thank you.”

Sometimes at night, you fantasize about diving into the abyss of darkness. It looks and sounds a terrifying lot like him. You want to know him. You need to know him. When it comes to him and this—whatever this is—the lines between want and need are blurring into an unidentifiable mess. It’s an ocean of emotions with no land in sight. A total eclipse of the heart, if you will. You’re losing your mind.

“What you can do–” You straighten your shoulder, hoping it will add height to your beaten confidence. “You can tell me your name. Sir,” you say. 

He nods. “I suppose it would only be fair, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Matthew. My name’s Matthew.” The softness of his features as his lips move to the rhythm of his words takes you back anew. His eyebrows raise slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of beautiful, unfocused hazel eyes that steal your breath away. 

Matthew. It is a name that easily rolls off the tongue. It suits him.

You repeat his name aloud. “That’s an odd name for a 200-something-year-old man,” you point out. 

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

You hit a sore spot. His head dips, fingers running over his nails and tongue tracing his teeth. “Not anymore,” he says.

God died for him a long time ago, and all churches burned down.

Your grip on your bag loosens. “Then why Daredevil?” you ask. 

His lips part. “I, uh, have the Bulletin to thank for that one. After centuries of existing in this world, and being despised for no matter what I do, I’ve decided to embrace it. I am Daredevil, not even God can stop that now.”

Matt grabs his glass, turning away from you. He doesn’t use a cane to navigate from the couch to the mini bar on the other end of the room. You carefully follow his movements. One of his hands remains at his side, snapping his fingers as he navigates the familiar terrain of his home. 

He uncaps a half-empty bottle of Whiskey to pour himself another glass. 

“You know, Matthew,” you prompt, daring to step forward an inch, “as big as your reputation is in this part of the city, Silver Lining is not the kind of magazine that would cover your story.”

“You still came,” he says. 

“I could lose my job if anyone knew I came here.”

“And yet you’re here and not where you should be.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t risk losing your job if it wasn’t important to you, would you?”

You stammer, “I–” He’s got you. You’re a fish with a hook in her mouth. 

“If Silver Lining Magazine won’t cover my story, why are you here?” Matt turns back to you, leaning back against the shiny Mahagoni of his minibar. It offers a beautiful contrast to his strong physique and the slight paleness of his skin. “Could it be because you’re fascinated by the mythic?” he asks, teasing. “By werewolves and witches and vampires?”

It’s your turn to scoff. “I won’t confirm or deny. My boss wouldn’t let me write a vampire vigilante exposé even if I begged him to.”

“And that’s why Mr. Doherty doesn’t deserve you.” Your body visibly recoils when he pushes forward, moving just an inch toward you. “Your curiosity is a virtue,” he purrs. The moonlight sets your reflection in his glasses alight. 

“Is that why you lured me here?” you ask him. “Because my curiosity is a virtue and you consider yourself better than the people in my life?”

“I didn’t lure you here, and I think you know that. That’s not what this is.” The distance between you starts to shrink, backing you into a corner. “I believe you came here because the thought of interviewing a vampire and sharing your findings with the world on your account excites you,” he says. “You want to be heard. You want to be taken seriously as a journalist, and you want to make people happy.”

The only way for you to come out of this with your pride and dignity still intact is to put up walls before the already existent labyrinth of walls keeping your heart guarded and your soul safe. “Again,” you ask, “why me?”

“Why not you? As I stated in my letter, I’m a fan of your work.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, about that. How did you write that if you’re blind?”

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

“Of course.” Of course, he has a secretary. “I… I just don’t get it,” you say. “You’ve been hiding for so long–” 

Matt cuts you off with an urgency you didn’t expect, “Things have changed. Circumstances…” he trails off. 

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

His answer is silence. You let out an exasperated sigh. “If you want me to interview you, you have to be honest with me.”

“I’m not on the record yet.”

“Right. Maybe you can answer this though—off the record, of course—how can you be certain I didn’t call the cops or the FBI before I came here?”

His eyes crinkle. “I’m not stupid, sweetheart,” he says. 

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

He’s spreading you open, holding up a mirror for you to look into. It’s your miserable self in all its glory, and he knows you better than you know yourself. 

You ignore the sharp pain in your left ribcage as you pull the arrow out of your heart. “Unless someone holds up a sign that they are pro-vampirism, how would you even know I’d listen to you and not just refer you to the Journal of Psychiatry?” 

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in vampires?” Matt quips.

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

The sound of your heartbeat must sound almost like the rapid firing of a machine gun, that’s how fast your pulse is racing. Your veins threaten to burst with the excess blood. It’s a heat like no other. You’re a witch at the stake, and Matt is holding the torch to your gasoline-doused body. 

He clears his throat. Your face falls at the words that tumble out of his parted lips, and the rapid firing turns into a deafening silence and a monotone line on a heart monitor. 

“After what I’ve learned from reading Dr. Rice’s research on the phenomena of vampirism, I can confidently say this species is no different than an animal like the great white shark or the Homo sapiens sapiens—our kind,” he recites. “Vampires are a medium of fiction and propaganda to induce fear, but they are also a widely misunderstood species that is being silenced rather than heard. Our species, the human species, likes to consider themselves superior, even when we’re in a position of being someone’s natural food source. Dr. Rice’s research is based on a comprehensible set of facts, and isn’t that what we have been relying on ever since the beginning? Our psychology makes it possible for us to change the narrative in our favor, and more often than not, we ignore the very facts deemed by humans as an intellectual importance to spread the message of an entirely different agenda. Dr. Rice’s research only proves that egotism and humans themselves will be humankind's certain downfall.”

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

Your heart restarts with a rush of adrenaline. “How… how do you know all of this?”

“I may be blind,” Matt says, “but I know how to read between the lines.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The alcohol in his drink seems to have little effect on him. “I know you have questions, and I’m willing to answer them if you promise to publish a detailed report somewhere other than Silver Lining Magazine.”

You look down at your bag, then back at him. “Ben Urich could have told your story in a way that would’ve made people listen,” you murmur. “I don’t have an impressive career like him.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “but you could have easily written ‘Attack on NYC’. Ben was a good man, an even better journalist, but he could not have written your college essay. And he could never have been you.” 

Your name rolls off his tongue—not a pretentious nickname that makes you want to vomit but your name, and it flicks a switch within you. 

You glance around the spacious living, pulling your laptop out of its confines, and you bridge the distance between you, finally. You notice he smells of sandalwood cologne and scentless soap. “Okay,” you cave. “Where do you want me to set up?”

Session 1.

The spacebar clicks underneath the tip of your index finger. The white of your screen fills with a series of red sequences as the microphone takes in every little sound around you. Except for the two of you and the fading footsteps of one of Matthew’s assistants though, the world has fallen silent in the dead of the night. He’s sitting across from you, legs crossed, head tilted; your life is about to change.

“So, Mister Murdock,” you begin, “tell me. How long have you been dead?” 

His mouth opens in a wide grin. “242 years,” he answers. 

“And what happened the year you died?”

“Well, it was 1782. I was a good few years out of law school. I was a good lawyer, but I wasn’t successful. That year, I met a beautiful woman at a banquet. I wasn’t rich—trust me, I was beyond penniless—but she had been adopted into a wealthy family, and that made her one of the richest women in the room. Everyone wanted her, but when I sensed her across the hall, she only had eyes for me. And she was the first woman to not see me just because I was blind.” He chuckles sadly. “I thought she was the woman of my dreams, the love of my life, but a few weeks later, after letting her into my life, I realized that she didn’t look at me that night because she was interested. She was hunting me. El— Miss Elektra Natchios…”

The year 1782 becomes apparent before your inner eye. As he tells you about the night he met her, you can see the dark-haired beauty making her way across the ballroom. Red lips and a gown to die for. Her dark eyes were full of mischief, but the passion in them could have knocked a grown man off of his feet. And that is just what she did to poor Matthew. 

“I was going to marry her,” he tells you.

He went to church regularly. His knees were bloody from praying, his senses already heightened before he died. God’s soldier, that is how he puts it. He was told that the accident that left him blind happened for a reason, and he had to fight a war that went beyond the country’s fight for independence. 

That summer, Elektra drained him. He didn’t know what she was. She fooled him. He was obsessed with her. Her dark eyes he couldn’t see lured her in, and it was the venom in her blood that became his downfall after she dug her teeth into him.

Matt tried to beg his priest for forgiveness, but he didn’t even make it past the marble stairs before the doors locked. He knelt in a pool of blood—both his and that of the first human he ever sucked dry to survive as a newborn vampire—offering an eternal sacrifice to Catholicism, but God abandoned him on his doorstep. 

The church walls would have been set on fire if he had touched them from the inside. 

You look up from your notepad to find him now standing at the window. He’s not looking out, of course, but he seems so deep in thought, the memories that aren’t your own but his start to dissipate, and you’re brought back to the here and now.

Matt poured his heart out to you. You expected answers, but not this kind, and certainly not of this magnitude. You see him in an entirely different light. He’s vulnerable, fragile, and human. He has endured trauma that killed him, but he couldn’t die because the woman he loved made him immortal. It’s a bigger curse than growing up with the belief that an accident made you God’s soldier. 

He lost everything. For centuries, he has had to live with that. It’s killing you, feeling his pain, the pure agony that radiates off him. 

Your voice is quiet when you ask him, “What was it like?” You don’t have to say it out loud for him to know what you are referencing.

Matt chuckles, the sound a mere breath in the atmosphere. “Like she took my soul from my body, setting fire to my belief system and already heightened senses,” he says. 

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

“It was. Is. My heart stopped, but when that happened, something else awoke inside me. The hunger… the hunger was the worst part. It’s insatiable. One hour passes, and you feel like you’ve been starving for weeks.”

“Like you’ve been possessed by a demon?”

“Like I am the demon.”

“But you’re not.” You should stop the recording. You’re not on track; you’re incorporating your feelings into Matt’s story, but you can’t help it. The words tumble out of your mouth without a second thought, a train that cannot be stopped. 

He raises his eyebrows, you can see it in his reflection in the windows. “Are you religious?” he asks.

You shake your head. “This isn’t about me.”

“Are you?”

The veins on the back of his hands bulge as he balls them to fists at his sides. Your throat is a desert, and your heartbeat resembles a storm that burns right through it, sending the sand flying in all directions of the horizon.

You adjust in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. He takes a whiff. He’s smelling you, and that doesn’t help the speed of your pulse to calm down. 

Tapping your pen on your notepad, you watch the red sequences fill the white space of the recording program. It moves with the sound of your voice when you finally dare to answer. “It’s a complicated question because there is a difference between believing in God and believing in the church,” you say.

“Do you believe in God then?” Matt asks. It’s as though he’s trying not to seethe at the mere mention of someone he used to worship. You make a note of that.

“There is so much bad in this world. So much cruelty. I can’t…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to believe in a God that would let the things humans do to each other happen. If God existed—if he was as merciful as Christians like to claim, he wouldn’t let this happen. And I’m so sick and tired of people using their faith, and their beliefs in God and the church as justification to be disrespectful. I don’t understand it. How can anyone? Why is someone who has to drink blood to stay alive—someone who didn’t even choose this life—worth less and the devil’s breed when humans do worse things to each other? Why would God allow us to start wars that kill innocent people? Children? It’s just not fair that we treat ourselves and others as though we are already in hell, and we’re just supposed to accept that God doesn’t care—” You stop yourself, the tears burning behind your eyes. 

Matt turns back around. You can’t look away. “When I was still human,” he murmurs, “I used to believe everything that happened to me was God’s will. The accident, God’s will. Me going blind, God’s will. I went to confession, prayed until my knees were bloody and bruised. I tried convincing myself that every scream I heard from down the block, every person who lost their life or their innocence was my responsibility. God made me this way for a reason, right?” The scoff is as bitter as the liquor in his glass. “I fell apart, you know. I was a kid, so I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” he tells you. 

You hold your breath. The glasses slip from his eyes as he takes them off with shaky fingers. You are met with the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes. Emotions dance a heated tango in a tornado. If you look closer, the green specks bring life to his eyes. It’s human nature in the purest sense of the word. 

Your reflection stands in his irises, his unmoving pupils, and the tears glisten in his eyes. They’re as red as blood, watered-down crimson essence. You want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but that would be crossing a very big line that you can’t bring yourself up to touch. 

“I studied law because I thought it would change something,” he continues. You listen. It’s the only thing you can do—listen. “It wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever did felt like it was enough. I lost my father. Jack. I didn’t know my mother until it was too late. Maggie. I had no one. No money, no prospects, just me and those voices in my head, telling me I was supposed to be God’s soldier.”

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

He shakes his head. “I prayed; I crawled up the stairs of the church, and I spent hours repenting for my sins. I bled myself dry for Him. I sacrificed myself. I sacrificed my youth, my heart, and my soul, and I got nothing back. I begged for help until my voice was sore, but nothing… God, nothing was ever good enough. Until Elektra came around,” he says. 

“She changed everything for you. It makes sense. She turned you into a vampire, but she also loved you.”

“She did love me, in her own twisted way.”

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

He isn’t yours, but the pang you feel in your chest is treacherous. Your heart cracks like a porcelain vase, jealousy creeping in like a parasite of toxic waste.

In response, Matt only chuckles bitterly. “She made me believe again, then took my soul and crushed it in her hand.” The correction makes your shoulders slump. “Instead of feeling like my world ended though, I felt at peace when she sucked the blood out of my veins and fed me her venom,” he says. “It’s sick, I know. I was aware I died that night, that she turned me into a devil who could only survive if he drank the blood of others. The Catholic in me struggled to accept it, but I had no choice but to embrace what she made me.”

“And where is she now?” you ask.

“Gone.” The light in his eyes has fully disappeared now. “I stayed with her for a while until she died in my arms. She showed me what love is, and she showed me heartbreak. She made me hungry for blood, awakening the devil I’ve been trying to tame. She taught me how to feed, how to hunt, and how to chase. But she also cursed me,” he says. “I only exist for myself now. I only bleed for myself. No God, no church, and no more religion. I’m not Jesus, I’m Judas, and I retired the cross the day I was crucified.”

You have run out of questions to ask. Too overwhelming is the sight of his walls crumbling down, this stranger you now know better than any living being seems to. You no longer see money in this, or a story to chase, you only see Matthew, and the halo above his head he still believes is a pair of horns. The world broke him. His faith in God broke him. It crushed him, and he lost everything. How broken he must be. 

“Not such a pretty story when I say it out loud, huh?” He scoffs.

The spacebar clicks again. The recording comes to a sudden halt. One hour and fifty-eight minutes, the first session of your interview with the vampire. You need to put a halt to it now because what you are about to say or do as you reach your hand out to brush his cold, dead skin is not something that should be found on a record. And you won’t ever tell.

Matt pulls away when your warm fingertips brush his. You’re standing across from him now, so close he can smell, hear, and feel all of you at once.

Your touch is the holy water that burns his skin, but the fire sustains him and shoots straight to his core the same way the blood rushes to yours.

“It’s not a pretty story, no,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “but it did tell me what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“That you’re not evil. You’re not the Devil. You’re misunderstood. You’ve been beaten; you’ve been abandoned, hurt, and broken. That doesn’t make you a monster. Trying to make this city a better place does not make you a monster.”

“If you only knew the things I’ve done…”

“I know the rumors suggest that you were the one who fought Wilson Fisk and got this city back where it needed to be. You’ve saved countless women from the worst of fates. You are the reason the innocent people of Hell’s Kitchen feel safe. By picking up that mask, you became a hero, not a villain, and that is the story I want to tell.”

In lightspeed, he has moved you from the window to the other end of the room. Your back hits the wall. 

Matt towers over you in all of his intimidating glory. His eyes spark red, but you hold his unfocused gaze. He has such beautiful eyes. This pull between you is far from human; it’s unhealthy, and it is exactly where he wanted to get you. You’re trapped, pinned underneath him like a deer caught in headlights. 

Exhaling, your breath strokes his cheeks. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste of you. Every particle in the air, he inhales. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to suck that tongue into your mouth. 

Your pheromones play his head like a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette. He growls. “Do you have any idea how dangerous I am?” 

The moonlight catches his sparkling white teeth. This time though, you come face to face with the sharp edges of his previously concealed fangs. Your jaw drops open. He’s ethereal. 

“I could snap your neck—” Matt places his hand on your neck, “I could make that heart stop beating, take the air from your lungs. I could eat you…” He traces the vein in your throat from your jaw to your collarbone. “I could bite you and suck your blood until you’re empty. I could kill you, sweetheart. My kind is your natural enemy. You shouldn’t be here.”

You shudder. His nose brushes the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s so close you can smell him. On inhale, and his scent consumes your senses. He is all you can feel now. You reach out to hold onto his arms, his muscles tensing under your teeth. He’s big and strong, and those hands have a mind of their own as they begin to wander but never where you need him most. 

You shouldn’t be here, yet you came. He asked you to him, and you complied. Is this your fate now? Chasing after your big bad wolf like the helpless sheep that you are?

Your walls clench around an agonizing emptiness, your swollen clit brushing against your soaked underwear. Whatever he is doing to you, it’s the cruelest form of torture. 

A strangled noise breaks out of the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. “You have no idea how badly I want to taste you,” he breathes. 

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

Your tone shatters him. When he kisses you, finally, fireworks explode in the universe around you. All the stars seem to finally align. Your heart opens, and it sucks him right into you. Your soul yearns for him. He’s so close yet so far away. 

The moon stands between you, but you cross even that ocean as you push against him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. He takes like heaven and hell; he’s the apple Eve bit into and cursed her for all eternity. But he’s also the snake, the one who compelled you to take this journey of bad decisions and jump right off the cliff’s edge. You melt into him like a broken candle. 

He pulls away. Those fangs are alluring, as sharp as a knife’s tip. You want to know what it would feel like gracing your skin, digging into your as he thrusts his cock into your tight cunt. The thought alone sends your mind into a spiral.

Your lips are swollen, but he has yet to draw blood. Matt looks as though he wouldn’t dare, his eyes darting around in a darkened conflict he feels might cost him more than your dignity. You are begging for it, as is your body, but he’s holding himself back. He’s the one who tied himself to an invisible pillar, keeping his hands locked behind his back. But that is not the Matt you want. 

You lean your head to the side, exposing the length of his neck. All control has slipped from your fingers. It’s in his hands now—you are. He cups your head gently. A mere few inches lie between your fountain and his lips.

You press a kiss to his calloused palm—a desperate and needy kiss, tracing your tongue over the lines that tell his life’s story in a way no interview can retell—and it is then he is forever done for. He’s doomed, and you are the second woman to pull him under the pits of hell. 

Saliva drips from his fangs. You hold your breath. He hisses, a weak admission of surrender; the words die miserably on your tongue when his lips close around your pulse point with all his might, and his teeth drive home. 

You moan aloud. Your fingers tangle in his hair, forcing him deeper as he sucks the dark red essence out of your vein. The sensation is more than you bargained for. It’s a drug that wrecks your system. The synapses in your brain backfire with all their might, and what follows the initial explosion of pleasure shooting white hot through your being is complete and utter silence as this God of a man feeds on you. 

The invisible string between you glows a bright crimson. It slings around you, tying you together like the roots of a tree. It’s an eternal sacrifice. You are giving your all to him, the very core of your existence that is now flowing into his mouth. You swear you can hear his thoughts mingle with yours. Yes, more, please. You taste so good. Your knees buckle, but you remain standing strong. He makes sure you don’t fall. Don’t slip away from me. I need you. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. You could sob. It feels so good—too good to be true. In that moment, you become one. There is no telling where one begins and the other ends. The coil in your stomach tightens, and the only pain you feel is the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. He’s taking everything as you give him everything, but it is not enough. It has never been enough. 

When your body struggles to catch up with the lack of blood, he pulls away. His fangs drag out of your neck agonizingly slowly. You whimper at the sudden loss.

Matt catches you as you stumble into his arms. “You okay?” He cradles your face, brushing the hair out of your face. Your blood stains his lips. Blinking up at him, the force of your metaphysical connection slaps you awake. 

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

He pokes the tip of his index finger with the sharp edge of one tooth, sliding it over the two holes that are pulsating with the work of your heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

“No,” you say. “You did exactly what you should have.”

“I couldn’t stop.”

“But you did.” You wipe the blood from his mouth. “And I felt you. I only felt you.”

The living room passes by you. Before you know it, your back lands on something much softer than a concrete wall. He’s not a monster, that one, but he surely is an animal. 

You taste your blood on Matt’s luscious lips as he devours your tongue. It tastes of copper and a little bitter, but that is what makes him moan. That sound is the last thing you could ever grow tired of. 

His palm rests on your chest. Your heart pounds against his palm. “You’re so alive,” he says.

You cradle his face in your hands. “And you’re more human than you think.”

If he wanted to pull your heart out and hold it, you would let him in a heartbeat. 

He leans you back. He strips you bare. He kisses down your body like you are a fucking masterpiece for him to explore. That is how he sees you. 

Your head falls back. The kisses wander from your hips to the inside of your thighs. Every kiss brings his breath closer to your center. Matt pulls them apart. He opens you up to him. Your scent clouds his senses, and he groans, but he doesn’t touch. 

His fangs graze your skin. “Mine,” he growls. 

You gasp. He bites into the sensitive flesh. Hard, passionately. Your legs wrap around his head, trapping him there. He sucks, and he sucks, and he drinks, and the wetness pools out of your cunt in an obscene amount. This is foreplay to him. It drives you toward the edge leading to an abyss you are afraid you might never be able to crawl back out of. There is no bottom, it is just a pit, and he’s pushing you closer and closer, and—

Your back arches, but he pulls away before the coil can snap into a million butterflies. He pries your legs away from his head, spreading them further on the mattress, as far apart as they will go. 

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner have been served on a silver platter. He breathes in. The scent of your soaked pussy sticks to the hairs in his nose. It isn’t enough. He breathes in again, your arousal sweeter than fiction. You’re everything and more. He wants to taste that part of you more than anything, suck up the slick that is soaking the sheets—and you didn’t even think that was possible—but he waits because he needs to savor it. He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. neither for him nor for you. 

The blood is still dripping from his tongue and his fangs, and the raw inside of your thigh. He runs his finger through it. The sting runs from the wound to your folds, then back down. Still, he doesn’t touch. He plays with the blood, sucking on his fingers until they’re clean, and then he dives back in for a taste. He doesn’t bite, he kisses and sucks, but he doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t hurt you. 

You’re his saving grace; he has to worship you. Pain only has a place in pleasure. 

“Matthew,” you moan. 

He chuckles, kissing where his fangs left deep indentations. “No one will ever touch you again,” he purrs. “I’ll make sure of that.” 

You try to protest, but the words die on your tongue when he leans in, capturing your clit with his hungry mouth. The wound on your thigh closes. The blood from his lips mixes with your juices, and you cry out at the intensity of it all. 

He eats you with the ferocity of a man starved for weeks. He eats your pussy like he ate your blood, savoring every drop but still feasting for the taste to spread out in his mouth like wildfire. Sour, sweet, and copper. He sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth. His tongue drags through your folds, up and down, and then the tip slides inside, tasting your walls. He grows bolder as your moans accelerate. 

Matt cradles your thighs. He forces your hips back down to the mattress, stronger than the average human man. You have to endure his beard scratching and burning, and the pace he has set.

The orgasm creeps up on you. Before you know it, he has plunged his tongue into you, and your body convulses around him. You scream into a pillow as you come. 

You are each other’s forbidden fruit. No prayer in the world could keep you apart. 

Faintly, you can hear him say, “Good girl.” Your legs quiver. He pulls away, then comes right back like a boomerang. 

He’s warm now. He was cold before, but when he kisses you this time, he’s warm. He’s hot. You run your hands over his bare chest, the scars that lie under the dark strands of hair. You tug at it, and he moans. You can tell he is a little insecure, but by pressing your lips to one of the cuts on his shoulder, he relaxes. 

What he must have endured, what he must have lived through before he died and was resurrected in the same breath, just without a beating heart—you don’t want to think about it or you will break, but you can still feel him through the crimson tie that holds you together, and you know that he has suffered enough for more than two lifetimes. You wish you could take it all away from him. You wish you could have saved him before it was too late, loved him more than the woman who turned him, but turning back time is an impossibility. You are both acutely aware of that. 

“Hey.” Matt tilts your head toward him. “Where did you just go?” he asks. 

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

You. His salvation. He kisses you, softly this time. He pours gratitude into his lips and bleeds them out in poetry as they slide into your mouth, and you swallow every last drop. 

If someone had told you a week ago where you would see yourself on that particular Monday, you would have laughed at them. And if someone had told you a week ago that you would be making love to the devil, you would have called them crazy. But it’s happening. 

He thrusts into you without a warning. His thick cock fills you like nothing and no one ever has before. Your cunt has been molded to fit him, you’re sure. You take him in, and you moan at the stretch. It’s a pain so delicious you could fall apart right then and there just from the feel of him inside you. 

Every thrust drags the tip of his cock along your sweet spot. Every added sensation drives you closer to your death. 

Your body tingles. He explores your face with his lips rather than his fingers, moving to your neck again. You cling to him, oh-so-desperate for him. He likes you like that, and you like him like that. 

“You’re fucking with my head,” he tells you. “Offering your pussy to a vampire. Letting me drink your blood. Begging me to fuck you. You’re in my head, baby. Can’t get you out of my system. Fuck.”

You are his downfall, his salvation, but he is all of those things to you as well—all of those things and more. If he could read your mind, you would tell him that. Words can’t do justice to how you feel. Not right now, maybe not ever. 

“Bite me again,” you beg.

His thrusts falter. He searches your body for any sign of regret. His fangs come out, and he buries them deep in your jugular vein. The floodgates open wide. Your walls clench around his cock, your clit pulsates, and the wave crashes into you. 

You come as he devours your neck and your blood. You transcend into another dimension, far away from everything and everyone but never him. Never Matthew.

The sensation of you wraps around him like a weighted blanket. His balls tighten, your blood unfolding its taste on his tongue. You are all over him, inside of him, everywhere at once. He falls head-first, dragging you down with him. 

He comes with a shout that is only muffled through his teeth buried in your flesh, his cum spurting into you and filling your cunt to the brim. Your eyes roll back. You’re flying and falling all at once. 

Oh, how good it feels to be consumed by him. To be fucked and sucked dry. You would have never expected this to come out of your week, let alone your life, but now that it has happened, you are floating on cloud nine. 

Dizziness threatens to take over, but before you can pass out, he forces himself away, allowing your heart to catch up with the lack of blood in your system. He collapses on top of you. His cock softens, but he stays inside. You need him there. You want him there. And that is the only place he wants to rest tonight. 

He heals the wounds on your neck. “You have a mark,” Matt rasps, tracing your skin with his finger. 

You choke out, “Yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses you there. Once, twice, even a third time. “Mine,” he says.

You’re his. He’s yours. It doesn’t get any better than this. 

The minutes tick away on the obnoxious clock on the wall. Matt pulls out eventually, wrapping you up in a blanket. He coaxes you to drink, but you’re barely lucid. Only when he begins to stroke your hair you start coming back to yourself. You thought you might regret it, but as you look at him, his almost guilty eyes staring back at you, all you can do is reach out for him. 

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

He chuckles and retorts, “Have I not scared you away?” There is some truth to it though.

He’s covered in your blood. It sticks to his lips, his hands, and his chest. It’s sickeningly intimate, in a way.

You shake your head in response. “You could not possibly.”

He listens to your heartbeat. You’re as honest as they come. 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Session two tomorrow then.”

That night, you fell in love with the Devil, but he also fell in love with you, his angel in the form of a reckless journalist, and the only blood he ever wants to taste again until the end of his miserable, cursed days. 

Matt Murdock (Smut) Tag List: @shouldbestudying41 @theradioactivespidergwen @cheshirecat484 @1988-fiend @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-girl-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife

[mercury2venus]

I never share my work up here but this is an excerpt of something I’m writing.

Jacob Anderson is soooooo fine as Louis so I just used his character as a face claim …kind of because WHEW.

Btw this is an AU. Completely away from the storyline of IWTV

“Choosing temptation over suppressing love”—

My belly grew everyday.

And honestly ? It was the worst time of my life.

Pregnancy can warp the mind, shake the emotions.

But Louis ? He took it all to the chest.

He talked to my belly, gave it a kiss when he felt a kick. Told me though my body was housing another I still stood as the apple of his eye and the object of his affection.

God I loved him. And he loved me.

That’s all I prayed for.

“ I’d give my life for you Cleo, I’ll kill for you, commit sins before God for just a glimpse of that pretty smile. I know I sound crazy. But it’s true darling. I’ve never been so in love.”

He whispered into the darkness of the night. The moon and stars sat perched within that purple sky gazing upon him. Their beams soaking his skin in its ivory glory. In that moment, he looked as angelic as his voice sounded. Though his eyes swirled with madness and his hands, would anxiously find solace in keeping his hair slick… I never judged.

As if he was in a Confessional he began to smile in relief. Those dark thoughts that would often plague his mind, were now shared with another

No longer enduring it on his own. I’d carry his cross, his demons, his pain without worry and yet

Still it was terrifying to love someone so much that their madness becomes your truth.

[ichigosluvrr]

It's concerning how my black fem writers are not writing anything for Louis 😢 what's going on guys??? C'mon I need something, anything, there are literally only two things under the tag man. Ya girl starving over here 🤧

Imma need y'all to drop the anime fics rq and come write something for my baby, please 😞

His sexy ass man😍😍😩

[yesimwriting]

i NEED to see Louis having the biggest crashout of all crashouts over reader. He don’t play about the people he loves in his life.

Also, Im so curious about how he reacts/talks about her without her being in the room. We know he’s caring and funny to her face, but I want Daniel to notice Louis indeed does have someone close to him in modern age and ask him about her. Will Louis show Daniel her paintings Louis has in his home? (anonymously purchased with the highest offer, just so his bestie racks in some dollars. Bc we all know bestie reader would give him her work for free)

a/n i can't put into words how much i love this. louis is so lighthearted around reader, but he becomes so deeply un-chill the second something reminds him of her mortality.

omg the interview potential is too good 😭. i love that you used the word 'notice' bc i think daniel would pick up on a vibe (similar paintings all over the penthouse, louis periodically looking at his phone and smiling, louis occasionally using phrases that feel gen-z) so when reader actually comes up daniel's like yeah. there it is.

anyways, here's a fic that explores both louis talking about reader and louis crashing out over reader and her mortality :)

----

There's something about the painting serving as the living room's focal point, and the smaller piece in the foyer, and the art work decorating the guest room. Not necessarily a style or a specific theme, but some underlying quality that conveys a sense of unity between them.

"Are you recording yet?" The prompting is small and far from an accusation. Daniel still finds himself shifting slightly, his gaze tearing away from the painting as if he's been caught staring at something not meant for him to notice.

"Uh--yes." It takes him a second longer than it should to meet Louis's stare. "That's an interesting painting."

The corner of Louis's mouth tugs itself upwards at that, not quite a smile but something that feels incredibly warm. He turns his head slightly, looking back at the painting as if to re-experience the details of it. "It's from a dear artist of mine."

Daniel's immediately thrown by the phrasing. His attention shifts away from Louis and onto Armand, whose lips are pressed together but is otherwise giving no indication of how he feels. "...An artist of yours?"

"Don't get him started." Armand's warning feels much too tired to be amused.

Louis halfheartedly glares at his companion before returning his focus to Daniel. "There's an artist, and she's..." Louis trails off, his eyebrows drawing together as he thinks through the best way to make his point.

"His very best friend in the world," Armand finishes for him, the words flat in their blatant sarcasm.

"Stop it," Louis sighs, the defense so halfhearted Daniel has to believe that this is an argument they've had regularly enough. "She is my friend, but it...it sometimes feels so much more important than that."

Okay. So Louis has a friend--an important friend--that Armand doesn't seem to like. It's hard to imagine them embracing other vampires these days, but the thought of a human girl so casually and openly important to Louis and disliked by Armand is even harder for him to grasp.

"Yes, she's like you," Louis offers after a beat, "And it's not like that. She's--like family to me." Daniel's questions are distracting enough to dull the usual annoyance he feels when Louis enters his mind. "And Armand's a lot more accepting of her than he'd ever say."

Armand's gaze flits towards Louis. His lips are still pressed together, but he's not exactly frowning, and there's something behind his eyes that almost feels thoughtful. It's not so much his expression as it is his blankness. It's a neutrality that almost feels methodical. "Clearly."

Daniel reaches for his pen. This 'friendship' seems like the kind of thing that might warrant a few rewrites of the more current chapters. He'll need extensive notes for the sake of continuity.

"So," Daniel starts, "This artist..." Louis provides your name. Daniel writes it down, making a mental note to look you up online before his revisions for the sake of accuracy. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-two." It's not the most surprising thing. They've mentioned other friends and acquaintances in passing, and they're often close to the ages they resemble...but Daniel's never seen evidence of them in their home. And Louis has never spoken so fondly of a human before.

Daniel looks at the painting again. He still hasn't been able to decipher what makes your work feel so cohesive, but he's starting to think it might be feeling. For the briefest moment, it's almost enough to make him wish there was a way to keep someone he doesn't even know away from them.

"I know," Louis says flatly, something behind his eyes briefly hardening. "But we're...careful. I ne--"

"Does she know?"

For whatever reason, the question seems to remind Louis of his fondness for you. "She knows." Daniel resists the urge to sigh. Twenty-two and willingly running around with vampires. He's not exactly in a position to judge, but it's difficult not to.

Louis relaxes slightly, his hand moving to rest against his knee. "She even knows about you."

"Really?"

"Please, they don't go long enough without speaking for her to not know anything." Another passively-aggressive comment from Armand. Still, there's relevance in what he's implying. How close are you and Louis? And why does he choose to spend so much time with you?

Daniel hums once in acknowledgement of Armand's words as he finishes writing down his last thought. "Why?" The question feels like something crafted by a very bad journalist. Daniel tries again, "Why her? What about her made you want to be her friend?"

Louis is quiet for a long moment, and to Daniel's surprise, Armand allows it to pass without any sort of comment. "When I'm around her, I can almost remember what it felt like to have sunlight touch mortal skin."

There's an affection there that's impossible to deny. If Daniel didn't think you needed to be a part of this before...

"She sounds--nice."

Louis eases at Daniel's tentative approval. "She's funny, too." He relaxes, allowing his shoulders to slouch as he leans forward. "And talented--during her gallery debut, an anonymous bidder paid a hundred-thousand dollars over asking price for her first piece." Daniel writes down the detail. "I've got more paintings I can show you later."

Daniel has a feeling this isn't as much of an offer as it is an inevitability. He agrees anyway, "Yeah, later." He turns to a new page in his notebook, writing your name at the top before drawing a bullet point beneath it. He'll need to figure out where you fit within the larger narrative. "So how did you meet her?"

----

Interviewing vampires isn't that different from interviewing humans. Not when you disregard the lack of effort it'd take them to end your life if they dislike your line of questioning and focus on the stiffness that characterizes the beginning of each interview.

When individuals, human or otherwise, are made to dissect their thoughts and memories, they tend to be slow to share until they've answered a few questions and start to feel like they're having a genuine conversation. Daniel's used to the phenomenon, used to the shallowness of the answers provided earlier in the evening. What he isn't used to, however, is Louis's irritation.

"It felt like what you'd assume it'd feel like." The answer is so nondescript, Louis might as well have not said anything at all.

Daniel's instinct is to ask for elaboration, but Louis gives him a look that feels like a warning not to. Daniel glances at his notes, thinking through his latest line of questioning. Is this...a sensitive subject?

"Don't mind Louis." Armand's responds, answering the question that Daniel has yet to ask out loud. "He's beside himself because his darling angel hasn't answered him in almost two days."

Louis turns his head to look at Armand. "I'm not beside myself." The correction is sharp, but Daniel can't help but feel like Armand might have a point. Louis straightens to face Daniel again. "It's not like her. She either answers or tells me she's going to be busy."

It's a concern that's almost unnerving to witness. "...The artist?" Louis dips his chin downwards once in silent confirmation. "She's twenty-two, she probably just forgot--"

"She wouldn't forget me." There's a harshness to the interruption that Daniel sometimes forget Louis is capable of.

"No," the response is more a result of an instinct for self preservation than a genuine attempt at agreeing with him. "I didn't mean it like that." Surprise aside, there's something interesting about Louis's defensiveness. "There are a lot of reasons for someone to not answer their phone."

Louis's quiet for a moment, his expression slowly morphing into something more neutral. He's not exactly easing, but it's a step in the right direction. After another second of silence, Louis parts his lips. Before he can actually speak, he's interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone.

Louis picks up the phone from the couch. He accepts the call so immediately, Daniel already knows who's on the other end. "Give me a minute," Louis mumbles as stands up.

Daniel sighs, leaning forward to pause the audio recording. At least Louis has a reason to come back in a better mood.

----

"No texts, no calls, you turned off your location--"

"I didn't want you to freak out."

The response only amplifies Louis's irritation. You didn't want him to freak out. What do you think he's been doing for the last day and a half? And what could possibly be so bad you needed to cut him out completely to keep it a secret?

Louis resists the urge to scoff. "What happened that was so bad you needed to keep it a secret from me?" The words are sharper than he usually is with you, and his phrasing isn't exactly fair, but he's not feeling very patient right now.

"It's not a secret--I just needed a second to deal with it before telling you." The vagueness only annoys Louis further. "I hurt my wrist." You pause, thinking through your wording, "I was out with a friend, and someone tapped the back of his car and I instinctually put my hand on the dash, and the pressure snapped my wrist."

What. "You were in a car accident?"

"No, it--" You cut yourself off with a partial sigh as you think through how to proceed. "It was a total fender bender. Josh's car isn't even totaled."

That's nowhere near as assuring as you think it is. "Thank God for that. Your arm's broken, but Josh's car is okay."

"My arm is fine." The defense means very little to him. "It's only my wrist." Louis rolls his eyes at the technicality. This is what he gets for leaving you alone. "But it's in a cast now, and in four to six weeks it'll be off."

The thought of you existing in New York by yourself, even more vulnerable than usual leaves a pit in his stomach. "I'm scheduling a flight."

"You don't need to do that." There's nothing surprising about the protest. "It's not a big deal, I've been checked out and the only thing wrong with me is my wrist." When Louis doesn't respond right away, you continue, "A lot of people break things."

Louis has never liked that kind of argument. You're not meant to be lumped into such a general category. "Those people aren't you."

The directness of the comment seems to soften you. There's a moment of hesitation, and then a reluctant sigh. "You're busy, you've got your book thing, and Armand--"

"If he has a problem with it, he can come, too." This should be enough to make the suddenness of their trip seem a lot less dramatic to you. Armand and him visit you semi-regularly, and they are over due for a trip. The thought of Armand being there might even be easing to you.

There's a brief stretch of silence, and then a careful, "You guys don't need to stop everything because I'm accident prone."

It'd be fair to argue that this isn't a result of your clumsiness. You were in someone else's car, and they weren't paying attention to the roads enough to keep you safe. Josh--you've mentioned him a few times in a variety of contexts, and Louis has yet to find a reason to be a fan. But that doesn't matter right now.

You're alone and even though you're not complaining, Louis can't help but imagine the pain you're probably in. You don't need to be lectured, and you don't need to hear anything that might make you worry about Josh. After a moment, he offers you something small, "Not your accident."

He wonders if there's a chance that you're injured in any other way. You said that you only broke your wrist, but that doesn't mean the accident didn't result in any superficial injuries. "Thanks." The word feels small. "I didn't call during a bad time, did I?"

Louis briefly thinks of Daniel and Armand waiting in the living room. "It's never a bad time to hear from you. Even when you're calling to tell me you've been in an accident."

"I considered texting, but I didn't want to give you a heart attack." He can hear the smile in your voice. "I really didn't like not talking to you."

It'd be easy for him to hold onto his worry, onto his anger, but he can't stand the thought of you being physically and emotionally wounded. "I didn't like it either." It didn't take much to hide this from him. There are so many ways in which you could be hurt, in which something could happen to you that he'd have no way of knowing about. "I also don't like the thought of you all alone."

There's the briefest crackle of static and then a soft sigh that feels like a yawn. "You sound like my mom."

"She's not wrong."

You sigh, the sound so familiar in its exasperation Louis is almost comforted by it. "You two have been on each other's side since Christmas."

The memory of meeting your mother when she came to visit you during the holiday season is one he's extremely fond of. It had been a brief shift, a small window into who you were before him, but everything about it had made him feel so normal. "I can't help that she's always right."

The crackly hum of movement briefly returns. Louis can picture you adjusting your hold on your cell phone. The thought is so tangible it only adds to the weight of your absence. "Why don't you come here?"

"Really?" He can hear the excitement bleeding into your voice. You recover quickly, the gentle static of movement briefly taking over the other end of the line. "You--you think that'd be okay? You have that writer over, and you're doing your--"

"Daniel's fine." In all honesty, Louis isn't sure if Daniel will mind another person around, but it doesn't matter. Injured or not, he can't imagine ever telling you to stay away from him. "He may even want to ask you a few things." That's true enough. Daniel was intrigued by the thought of Louis having a mortal friend. You'd be a good way at rounding out the modern era.

You're moving again. It isn't difficult for Louis to imagine you in your bedroom or on your couch, a heavy throw blanket on your lap. "I get to talk about you to a journalist?" The words are much too amused. "I'm going to tell him about the--" You're interrupted by your own laughter. "The club in Milan, with the LSD guy that smelled like--"

"Don't," it's a halfhearted attempt at stopping you, "We said we'd never tell anyone about that."

"I don't know, I think it's a story that deserves to be immortalized."

It's only an expression to you, but the reminder of the concept of permanence tarnishes the little peace the conversation has managed to bring him. Without intervention, you'll eventually vanish and leave him the sole holder of your shared memories. If he's not careful, that day might come sooner than it needs to. However, with intervention...

He pushes against the thought immediately. The prospect of turning you, of separating you from your soul for the sake of keeping you here is one that he only considers when he is at his most selfish.

Besides, he doubts he'd be able to bring himself to turn you himself. Armand is repulsed by the idea of having a fledgling, but there's a chance that he'd come around to the idea if you were the one to ask him. For all of his complaints and your shared bickering, something about the way that Armand never attempts to retaliate against you makes Louis think he might have a greater soft spot for you than he'd ever admit to.

Still, if Louis is allowing himself to imagine a completely self indulgent reality, the thought of Armand turning you doesn't fully fit into his ideal version of your transformation. Not when Armand's blood doesn't flow within his own veins. He banishes this thought more immediately than the last.

"Maybe I could be convinced to let you share that story if you agree to something."

You sigh in a way that's so incredibly telling. "You're not flying to New York to help me fly to Dubai."

Louis's not sure if he's more amused or irritated by your ability to read him. "I don't like the idea of you traveling by yourself, especially with a broken wrist."

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes. "It's this or no trip."

Louis doubts that you're extremely firm in this position, but he's willing to let you have a win. "You wouldn't do that to me."

You yawn, the sound low and tired. "Tough love."

"I'm not keeping you up, am I?" It's not particularly late, but there's a chance your body's exhausted. He'll have to read up on human injury before you get here. "You sound tired."

"The doctor gave me some pain killers for my wrist, and they make me kind of drowsy."

Great--you, all alone in your apartment, with a broken wrist, and painkillers in your system. The sooner Louis can get you here, the better. "You should get some sleep, I'll send you the flight information as soon as I have it."

"Okay." Your lack of questioning reveals more about your drowsiness than your words ever would. "Do you want me to send you my credit card info?"

"I've got it."

You let out a small breath that indicates resistance. "Louis."

There has to be a line somewhere. "It's this or no trip." He means the echoed phrase as much as you meant it, and Louis is convinced that you can that you can tell.

His hollow threat works. After a second, you give in with a small, "Okay." Wow, you must be more tired than you're letting on. "How long should I pack for?"

Louis isn't in the mood to think about your eventual departure. Fortunately, there's one topic that almost always works as a distraction. "Pack light, we'll go shopping when you get here."

"You so get me."

Louis smiles at that. "I know." The silence that follows feels a little less like a choice on your end. "Get some sleep, I'll send you the flight details tonight and I'll call you tomorrow." And then, just because he's not ready to let go of all his worry just yet, he adds, "Please answer."

"I was trying to spare you."

He doesn't doubt that at least some of your motivations were noble, but he also knows you, and he knows how you feel about his general wariness of the world around you. "That was the opposite of sparing me."

"Fine." You let out a breath, and Louis can practically feel you rolling your eyes. "My beloved Louis de Pointe du Lac, I promise to never intentionally ignore your calls again." The sarcasm in your voice isn't enough to taint the sentiment. You really do mean it.

Louis is nearly overwhelmed by his fondness for you. Things will be better, easier when you're here. "That's all I ask." You're quiet in a way that makes it impossible to not feel your drowsiness. "Goodnight, love you."

"Goodnight," you echo, "Love you. Tell Armand I said 'hi'."

"I will," he says, "Now get some sleep."

You mumble a response he can't fully make out before hanging up.

----

It's earlier in the evening than Louis wants it to be.

You're asleep in your own apartment, but it's difficult to not think about things much more gruesome than that. You kept the accident from him so easily, and you're at a greater physical disadvantage than you usually are.

You're also alone, not that you're safer when you're with others. The thought of the boy that allowed the accident to happen only adds to Louis's irritation. Josh. Josh, who crashes vehicles. Josh, who must have done something to make you think the accident was your fault in some way.

Louis pushes against the feelings. Josh, the details of the accident, the state that you're in. There will be time to deal with all of it later. He just needs to get through tonight. You'll be here tomorrow.

"It's still early," Louis's words are sulkier than he wants them to be, "We could go out for a bit."

"If you want to." Armand's response is slow and almost painfully nondescript in a way that suits the way he's been all evening.

Louis lets out a partial scoff. "What is it?" Armand angles his head to the side slightly in a display of synthetic confusion. "You've been passive aggressive all evening. What is it?" Armand doesn't respond. "Was it my worry? The phone call? The fact that I can't leave her alone like that?"

"You shouldn't have left her at all." The response is surprising enough to briefly silence Louis. "I told you it was only a matter of time before something happened to her."

The novelty of Armand almost expressing concern over you fades, leaving an unstable irritation in its wake. What right does Armand have to accuse Louis of abandoning you? Maybe if Armand didn't treat you like a puppy he didn't want, you would have wanted to live near them. "I didn't leave her--she chose not to move."

"You could have tried harder."

Louis blinks, his surprise clouding the potential anger. "Maybe if you didn't threaten her after every comment."

Armand's eyebrows draw together as if the possibility of you not enjoying your halfhearted spats had never occurred to him. "I have never once attempted to hurt her."

The distinction means very little to Louis. It's a statement that doesn't need to be made, because if Louis had sensed so much as an inkling of actual malice towards you on Armand's end, Armand would have never been allowed to be alone with you.

"We're different than her." The words are directed at Armand, but Louis's thoughts still latch onto the ways in which they apply to him as well. "After awhile, it has to be off putting to always be reminded of that."

Armand notes the thinly veiled self hatred immediately. As exhausting as it is to constantly hear about the poor saint cursed to be surrounded by such vile creates, it's even more draining to watch these sentiments impact Louis...and you.

He stands from his spot on the couch slowly, approaching Louis with slow, measured steps. "If you believe she's afraid of either of us, you are severely underestimating her."

Louis eases, the corner of his mouth tugging itself into something that comes close to resembling a smile. "You're not wrong about that." Armand extends an arm, placing a comforting hand on Louis's shoulder. Louis reciprocates the gesture, his hand coming to rest against Armand's forearm. "It's just hard not to worry."

To Armand, the response is a painful understatement. Louis worries about all that could happen in his absence, he worries about all that's wrong about his presence. Things would be so much easier if he'd get over the paranoia of 'ruining' you.

"You wouldn't have to worry so much if she was here more." Armand drags his thumb against Louis's shoulder. "Maybe this visit should be a little longer."

Louis's expression softens at that. "I'll do what I can to keep her here while she has a cast." He's never once asked you to leave, but he's aware of the temporary nature of your visits. You start missing your home and the access to whatever you need to create whatever you want. "But she starts to miss her home, and her studio."

"There's space here," Armand offers carefully, "You could give her a room." Louis's eyebrows pull together at the suggestion. "You're different when she's with you." Armand continues to trace patterns against Louis's shoulder. "And it's important we preserve that."

Louis's eyebrows draw together again, his confusion a little sharper this time. "Preserve it?"

"Human emotions are fleeting. The more time she spends away from you, the more likely she is to find more permanent relationships." Armand doesn't have to meet Louis's gaze to know that the implication has served its purpose. "And if she finds other people, falls in love and gets married, you can't expect things to stay the same between you."

Armand squeezes Louis's shoulder a little more firmly, a gesture meant to convey something comforting. "As your companion, I'm capable of grasping your relationship and even then, sometimes it's difficult to accept. Do you think some human boy would have the same patience? The same understanding?"

Louis frowns. Worrying about losing you to your mortality is a simple thing, but accepting the fact that he could just as easily lose you to change is nowhere near as easy. "I'm--I'm not going to make her do something she doesn't want."

Armand has to work at keeping his expression neutral. Louis's obsession with your free will is often a limiting thing. "Then we'll make sure she wants to."

----

manipulation is a love language, i promise <3

[ozzgin]

Featuring some of the recurring AUs for an easier reading.

Monster Harem Series

Yandere!Monsters x Heartbreaker!Fem!Reader

Breeding kink

Public Property Reader

Monster Daddies Reality Show

You're not the father! [Doodle]

Sleepover [Doodle]

Breeding kink [Doodle]

Stuffed toy jealousy [Doodle]

Tentacle House Monster Series

Yandere!House Monster x GN!Reader

Yandere!House Monster x GN!Reader 2

Plumber x Reader x House Monster

House Monster Encounter [Doodle]

Caught in the act [Doodle]

Reader with poor eyesight [Doodle]

Easter Egg Hunt [Comic]

Monster Streaming Series

Streaming to Monsters (GN Reader)

Streaming to Monsters (GN Reader) Part 2

Slime viewer vore

Human streamer receiving gifts

Monster Streaming Followers

Yan!Monster viewers

HornyMantis and boobs

Followers reacting to gaming Reader

Followers reacting to you having a favorite

Adult gifts from your followers

Meet and Greet with your followers

Shark Loan Shark crossover

Biggest toy achievement [Doodle]

Gangbang Milestone [Doodle]

Trying on clothes [Doodle]

Chameleon viewer [Doodle]

Shark Loan Shark Cameo

Flashing HornyMantis

Monster Dating Show Crossover

Monster Hotel Series

Monster Hotel (GN Reader)

Monster Hotel Breakfast

Monster Hotel Menu

Monster Hotel Door Sign

Monster Hotel Residents: Slime Monster

Toby and metaphorical speech

Thanksgiving Special

Monster Hotel Staff: Toby the Gardener [Doodles]

Toby with succulents [Doodle]

Toby learning sign language [Doodle]

Proposing to Toby [Doodle]

Toby and Gossip [Doodle]

Room Service Reader [Doodle]

Slime Girl Suggestive [Doodle]

Slime Guest stuck in your shower [Doodle]

Hugging stages [Doodle]

Rent-A-Monster Series

Idea: Rent-A-Monster

Idea: Service Vampire

Service Vampire drinking your blood

Emotional Support Monster

Monster Tutor

Service Werewolf

Service Werewolf helping you sleep

Krampus Christmas Special

Walking home [Doodle]

Needy Werewolf [Doodle]

Human Adoption Agency Series

Human Adoption Agency Origins

Seamster Monster Owner

Pastry Chef Monster Owner

Rent-A-Monster Crossover

Monster Roommates Series

Short: Monster Roommates (GN Reader)

Monster!Reader with monster fucker roommates

Cultural Differences

Morning Rituals

Monster Husband Series

Monster Marriage (GN Reader)

Monster Marriage (GN Reader) Sequel

Monster Marriage: Work Distractions (smut)

Monster Husband Honeymoon

Monster Dating Show

Monster Dating Show

Monster Dating Show: The Official Cast

Monster Dating Show Round 1: Dealing with Exes

MDS with a hoe Reader

Mr. Host in despair

Interview Snipped [Doodle]

Monster Dating Show: The Rejects [Doodle]

Host Design [Doodle]

Consequences [Doodle]

More Monsters

Complete list here

More Doodles

Complete list here

[lady-phasma]

Fangtober Day 1 - Blood

Lestat x fem!reader

Warning: MDNI 18+, period blood, oral sex f receiving, there’s a tampon and Lestat so that’s a warning.

a/n: for that moot, you know who you are, I put the line in just for you.

Lestat slid his hands around your stomach as he stood behind you. He gently placed a hand on your lower belly and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“You smell amazing, chèr,” he whispered. “May I?” He slowly began to slide your pajama bottoms off.

You laughed quietly as he removed your pants. You leaned back against his chest, consenting. He lightly kissed your cheek then moved in front of you before you could blink. You smiled at him as he placed his hands on your hips, his fingertips just under the waistband of your panties. As he guided them off you, he moved you both nearer the bed. Carefully, using his strength to seem as if you weren’t really moving at all, he laid you down on the bed. He knelt between your legs. He kissed your stomach just below the hem of your shirt. Your face went hot when he inhaled deeply, taking in your scent.

“Mon dieu,” he murmured against your skin. His thumb rubbed small circles on your hip as he kissed lower.

You stifled a giggle as his lips tickled your skin. You moved a hand to stroke his hair back so you could see his face. His blue eyes flicked up at you as he kissed the mound of your pussy. Your hips twitched involuntarily and he held you still with one hand on your hip. He moved a little lower and you felt his tongue against your slit. Lestat closed his eyes and breathed out softly. You moaned and let your hand fall to the bed beside you. One of his hands slid up the inside of your thigh. You felt his fingers graze against you as he kissed your lips. You closed your eyes and sighed.

His fingers delved into your wet heat and he groaned. His tongue passed over your clit, making you shiver. His other hand moved between your legs and he pressed your thighs open. You spread your legs a little more to make room for him. You noticed you had fisted the bedsheets in your hands in anticipation.

Lestat used his thumbs to spread you apart and licked up your entire cunt, circling your clit once. Then he hummed happily as you felt a gentle tug. He gripped the tampon string lightly with his teeth and pulled back slowly. You moaned as the tampon moved. It shouldn’t be sexy, but with Lestat is was, so sexy. You opened your eyes and looked down at him. He let the string drop and lowered his face between your legs again. He tugged on the string again gently, still holding you open. You gasped as the tampon came out. Lestat raised his head and opened his mouth. The tampon slid out of his lips and fell into his waiting palm.

“Like ma petite party popper and out comes ze prize,” he grinned and politely dropped the tampon on the hardwood floor. If such a thing could be done politely, Lestat could do it.

You finally giggled, but the sound was abruptly cut short as be delved back into your cunt, lapping greedily. You clutched the sheets with both hands as his tongue entered you. One of his hands held you firmly by the hip and the other was positioned so his thumb slowly circled your clit.

“Oh my god, Lestat,” the words came out as a choked moan and you closed your eyes, letting your head fall back on your pillow. “Oh! Fuck.” You felt like you were babbling, but the sensation of his tongue so deep inside you was combined with the softest suction. His thumb on your clit was replaced by two of his fingers as he sped up. He moaned gently as you tried to lift your hips. Your cunt clenched around his tongue and you heard a mumbled ‘yes’ as he sucked a little more. The circling pressure on your clit pushed you closer to your orgasm. Without warning, Lestat swept the hand holding you between your legs, under your ass, and lifted your hips.

You cursed and whined. He pressed his face hard against your cunt and drank, his fingers never slowing their movements. Your climax began to coil around his tongue and released at his fingers. Your hips shook every time his fingers slipped over your clit. You arched your back and gasped his name. You thought you heard him chuckle as you pushed your hips against him. His tongue was as deep inside you as it could go and you came hard around it. As the shaking subsided, Lestat guided your hips back onto the bed. He hummed softly again as he lifted his head. He sat up on his knees, trailing his fingers down your thighs.

“Très belle,” he whispered, wiped a thumb across his pouty bottom lip, and licked it clean.

“You missed a spot,” you giggled and smiled up at him. The red smudges of your blood across his chin stood out against his pale skin. He was so sexy and bizarre and enchanting. You closed your legs at your knees and sat up. You reached up to him and he followed your cue and leaned down to kiss you.

Masterlist

[m0chisenpai]

Hi! Can you do a Armand x Fem!reader x Louis? She would be an assistant of Daniel’s. They have sorta a thing for her but are trying to ease up because she’s not as open to the whole camp thing or lowkey doesn’t believe them.

off the record

˚｡⋆ louis de pointe du lac x black!fem!reader x armand

in which Daniel neglected to coach you how to deal with the behind the scenes of the creative process

author note: I had too much fun writing this, I love the idea of this trio so much

There takes a certain level of thick skin to work for Daniel Molloy. He wasn't a terrible boss. Just a difficult old man with extremely particular needs and ways he worked. But when he found you, you were an intern with well regarded credentials and grades, but according to your counselor you were headstrong and outspoken.

He accepted your application instantly and by the next year you were his official, and most longstanding, assistant. You juggled his interviews and meetings with editors, and only recently have you begun to manage his doctors appointments.

You traveled with him, it was a non-negotiable that you were to come and expenses were covered, but Dubai was the last thing you'd expected. You’d been nearly to all the states, but for Daniel’s health anything out the country was once in a while and planned carefully. And a you flew in the first class seat, you could not help but wonder who you were interviewing. NDA's were not new to you, but this one was lengthy and vowed more than just your silence.

The first night of the interview you aren’t present. Daniel can tell when he stops by your room, how your eyes droop. Your feet shuffle to greet him at the door and when you speak your words are mumbled and your glasses sit crooked on your face..

He lets you sleep, but he won't say its out of care, that he's filled with guilt for dragging you into a penthouse of supernatural apex killers. "Get to sleep unless you wanna read through my mess of a notes kid mixed with your droll." He raises a brow that you hum and nod at closing the door so you can return to the warm sheets of the bed. After that you are a fly on the wall just as he always instructed you to be.

Beside him, eyes down, fingers moving and taking notes when he mutters something to you.

You have an immediate distaste for both men. Vampire wannabes? This is who you are wasting your time on?

Louis asks who you are on the third night, "I never took you for a man who needs help Daniel." You won't admit, but your heart picks up, but you keep your eyes on the computer screen and let Daniel respond for you.

"Not an intern, she's one of the few ones who didn't run crying after a week working for me."

Your lips turn up at this, one of the few moments he would ever compliment you.

"She truly is like you." His eyes must be on you again, but a shiver washes down your spine. It feels as though someone's nail ghosts the skin on your back, trailing down your spine. And another hand, caresses the back of your neck. You roll your shoulders, brushing off the feelings and thoughts that start to build up.

"Stay out out my mind," you mumble.

"My apologies, just wanted to know about our surprise second guest." Now you dare to look up at him. Ghosts, goblins, vampires werewolves were for shows pandering toward a female audience that wanted to drool over men too beautiful and perfect to ever enter their mundane lives.

You scoff and return your focus to the notes in front of you. "Save the immortal hack for Daniel, Mr.Du Lac."

Your skin crawls at the way he tilts his head ever so slightly, and in that cocky drawl he offers another apology.

"Mr Du Lac and his companion would like to dine with you."

One of the shadowy workers pulls you feom the comfotrt of your show and you rush back in to throw on a quick lunge set, decent enough for dinner clothes and comfortable enough for the late hour. You assume it's in regards to the interviews. You bring your computer and personal notepad along with Daniel's. But what you are met with are two wine glasses side by side paired with the men on the couch, one sits in front of them.

An empty one sits in front of the empty counch where you sit. You wonder who is the one being interviewed now.

Their gazes are unblinking as you set your things and carefully cross one leg over the other.

"I'm sorry we are meeting so late, or would it be early Mr.Du Lac."

"Call me Louis, the pleasure is mine. My companion Armand wanted to join our meeting this evening."

Armand creeps you out the moment your eyes lock, how his golden eyes stare you, analyzing you. He isn't as old as Louis. He actually seems to be the age of some of the TA's from school. Though you'd prefer it if it were just Louis and you. You can manage being alone with the latter.

Dinner is set beside the empty glass by a worker. It looks like deconstructed artistic something with sauces encasing a small small ball of rice drizzled with thinkly sliced meats and veegatbles, but the instant you smell it your nose scrunches. The glass is filled with a white wine and you thank the man.

"Daniel tells us you think none of this to be real." Ah, so it does speak.

"It's true. I find the supernatural charade boring," you pick up the yellow pad and pen. "But I'm not paid to to dig any deeper than he asks me to. I polish and prime what he asks, and he does all the writing."

"This is dinner, cher."

"This is work, and I don't eat pork."

Louis quirks an eyebrow up at this development. "Religious?"

"Dietary restriction, I feel ill every time I eat it. Now if we may?"

"You weren't able to join the first interview because too were tired. I could hear your heart the entire time, you didn't sleep. Kept tossing and turning the entire night." Now you look at Louis, here he goes again.

"An easy observation, can we please focus on-"

"Thoughts were racing an awful lot too that night," Louis looks up in fake thought "is any of this worth it, why waste my time on a rich hack. I could be back home working on my portfolio."

Once again you cut him off. Pinching the bridge of your nose and gritting your teeth, "another brilliant observation please try and do better, now in session 2-"

"Your father took your mother here." Armand speaks up now and your heart stops, "those earrings she gifted you were from here. In fact in your dreams the previous evening you dreamt of taking them both here. You started planning it with the money that will come out of this interview and you have begun to explore the city when you are not needed, you've begun a list of where you wish to take them."

Every word accelerates your heart, it makes Louis smile "Careful cher, your heart might beat out your chest."

Your hands shake as they swipe the glass of wine in front of you, you take two large gulps. Clutching it for comofrt.

"My apologies, I did not wish to cause any distress."

"I'm sorry, I need a moment." You leave your things behind and return to your room that night. You feel childish locking the door behind you and running to the bathroom where you stop for a moment closing that door behind you as well locking it and taking the hottest of showers. The next morning a letter from the two sits by breakfast along with your things in a neat pile.

Eerily it is exactly what you were thinking of yesterday morning, it is french toast made from the fluffiest brioche. With a side of steaming bacon cooked to absolute perfection, turkey, not pork. Armand asks to speak to you while Daniel rests along with Louis.

Once you eat and shower quickly putting on a sweater to combat the chill you find him in the study.

He sits patiently as you get comfrotable in your own seat.

"It was not our intent to alarm you" his eyes follow you as you lean back to cross your arms. "You did not rest last night because of us. Please use tonight to rest."

You refuse to look at him, favoring the thread on your sweaters sleeve.

"You are more than qualified to work for any other reporter on your own, yet you work for...him. Why?"

"He was the only one to look pass the observations of my advisor, I wasn't going to be just an errand girl. Not too many publishers cared for my opinions. I was too blunt and rough along the edges to be a 'real' writer."

"You didn't believe Mr.Molloy was interviewing a vampire yet you still followed him here."

"It's not my book. I'm a fly on the wall remember? I help him and in turn one day I can begin to build my own project."

"But if it were your story?"

You pause in thought, and now you look into those unsettling eyes after a moment. "I would have interviewed Claudia had she survived. I feel her story needs to be heard."

You answer more of his prodding questions till you return to your room for lunch. A wrap of some sort with nuts and fruits on the side sits at the desk. And a pile of little girls diaries with white gloves and a note to handle with caution.

Progress is slow and steady, but there is a mutual respect that grows amongst the three of you. You indulge Armand in his prodding questions in turn he answers all your own. Though he refused to answer yor childish inquiries about the Gift.

Armand won't voice his affinity for you as Louis does. You won't admit the way his eyes settle on you as you enter the room makes you preen, makes your heart fuzzy and your head feel like it wants to float away.

The interview goes on tonight with Armand joining. They once more talk about Lestat. You try and fight your eyes from rolling as you read through an email.

'If I hear his name one more time I might gouge my ears out.'

'Don't torture yourself like that cher.' Your eyes look to him, but he remains focused on Daniel, listening to Armand. How does one multitask like that? Two conversations at once must be hard to juggle.

'Years of practice.'

'And what's with all this chere nonsense?'

'Would you prefer your name instead?'

'No' your cheeks warm in embarassment "I...enjoy it."

"Get me some pictures of this theatre." Daniel's instructions get your attention, "and whatever memorabilia you can find." You nod typing that onto your list of many other things to do.

'I will help you with that tonight, after the session I've arranged for dinner tonight' Armand now stares at you and that damned feeling begins to creep back in 'no pork as per your request.' You hate how quick you are to forgive him. But he slowly is earning your trust again.

Daniel coughs obnoxiously getting the elder vampires attention. "You were saying?" This time when you look down, a smile only the pair can detect makes its way upon your lips.

They stare at you less, leave your mind alone as per your request. And indulge in your blunt questions. Each night you find yourself slowly feeling less discomfort. You almost wish you could stay, you think to yourself one night now dining with the two looking at pictures of their time in France.

He sits beside you, smiling as he watches your hands carefully hold the photos from their time in France.

"No fair, Paris is top of my bucket list."

"I'd be more than happy to take you," Louis gives you that smirk which you roll your eyes in playfulness at.

"Sure you will."

"We could take you anywhere you would like" Armand states as though it is a fact of life.

"Ibizia?"

"Gladly."

"Bali."

"Sure."

Even though you still doubt their supernatural nature. You indulge them. Unknown that just as much as you have them wrapped around your finger, they have you caught in a web.

And they'll patiently wait for you to realize that there are some beings whose hearts you should never toy with. For the results afterwards, are eternal.

[theladyofthevarioussorrows]

Hey guys...SURPRISE!

To celebrate Lestat de Lioncourt's 264th birthday, I will be uploading my newest piece: a Lestat x reader fic! It's been in the works for a LONG while, and I'm excited to finally put it out there! Part I will be available here as well as on AO3 at 12pm EST...stay tuned!

🧛🏻‍♀️🧛🏻‍♀️🧛🏻‍♀️