𝜗℘

𝓦𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝓽𝒐 𝓶𝒚 𝔀𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅...

AN ANGEL ݂ 𝓳ade she/her 18 black 𝜗℘ the color pink vibes cinephile a beauty disney princess shopaholic repetto ballet flats daydreaming ctrl theo nott art donaldson lestat de lioncourt 𝓵ana del rey, my queen

⟢ 𝓶asterlist

“Are you human?” Armand asked as he looked into your eyes. It wasn’t soft nor aggressive. It was his way of speaking to your soul rather than to your body.

“Are you human?” It repeated in your head. What could he be speaking of? What nonsense? You thought to yourself.

“Yes, Armand. What else would I be?” You said with a soft smile and inquiring eyes. You weren’t exactly amused by his antics, but he always found a way to draw your attention.

“Are you human?” You asked as you watched him admire your entire being. It was a pure expression he gave you. It was as if he were lost in wonder, but knew exactly what he was thinking of.

“Yes, of course.” He spoke softly. There was a sense of avoidance in his eyes as he let out his words. It was as if he gave an incomplete answer. It was as if he had more to say.

“What I believe is that humanity is merely a concept,” you began to say. “Humanity is found in everything, if you’d ask me. It’s only another way of identifying beauty.”

What am I even saying? You thought to yourself. Because yes, what the hell did this even mean? It was like the words spilled out of you before you could catch them.

Despite the amount of time spent with Armand, you still couldn’t understand him like you could with others. However, you always identified Armand with beauty. Any other branch of beauty as well. Beauty was his to keep and admiration was yours to feel.

Humanity was beautiful to you and Armand was more human than anyone to you.

“You’re more human than I am,” you began to say.

Armand looked at you with a shocked expression. It was as if he’d never heard those words before. It was as if he couldn’t believe you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked, confused by such an expression. “Like what?” Armand replied. “Like you don’t believe me.” You smiled.

“It’s just that I don’t get that often.”

“Well, you are.”

Armand stared into your eyes again with such a loving and gentle expression. It was as if he were taking the air out of your lungs and receiving a part of you.

You wished he could do just that. You’d give it to him, actually. Every part of yourself.

earlier that day, there was nothing but tension between the two of you. your attitude heavy, and you were mouthing off just enough to piss him off, lips pushed out in that bratty little pout like you wanted him to do something about it.

and he sure did something about it.

cameron had you on your back with your knees damn near touching your chest. he held your thighs open like he owned the view, like closing them wasn’t even an option. every thrust was deep, slow, intentional — the kind that made your breath hitch before the sound even left your mouth.

his hand slid to your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there — keeping you right in his orbit.

“look at me,” he said, quiet but firm, like he already knew you were losing focus. when your eyes met his, he let out this low sound in his chest, something raw and a little desperate. he pushed in deeper, and the way your body reacted made his jaw clench.

“funny how you only behave when i’m inside you,” he teased. his thumbs brushed the side of your throat, slow, almost tender — contrasting how he drove into you purposefully.

your back arched harder, hips jerking against him, nails digging into his shoulders as he hit that sensitive spot inside you over and over again. the little gasp that escaped your mouth made him groan low in his chest.

“you like it deep, don’t you?” he murmured, hips rolling into you. his lips met yours, kissing you slow and filthy, like he wanted to taste the noise you made before you even made it.

“yes,” you moaned into his mouth, struggling to kiss him back as his tongue brushed yours, lazy and possessive, like he was coaxing the truth right out of you while he fucked you open.

before you knew it, as if having you folded in half for him wasn’t deep enough, you felt cameron flip you onto your stomach with ease. your back was arched up while your face was buried into the pillow. you gasped at the feeling of him driving back into you.

each thrust was harder, deeper, sharper, and your breath hitched with each movement. all you could do was grip the sheets, press yourself into him, and let out every broken, needy sound that threatened to escape before he even demanded it.

with one hand holding your hip, he guided the other to grab your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“say it,” he commanded in a teasing manner, watching you fall apart for him so easily. his thumb brushed along your cheek, holding your gaze. “whose is it?”

he sank into you harder, each thrust purposeful, and you could feel him pulling a little more of yourself into him with every movement. your nails dug into the sheets as he rocked you into the bed, his grip on your jaw firm but gentle enough to keep you steady. “yours,” you choked out.

there was nothing cameron cade loved more than to see you like this: all fucked out and senseless for him.

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⟢ tyriq withers ;

“armand,” you whined, riding him on the couch — your dress was bunched up, your underwear completely forgotten. all you could think of was the press of him beneath you, the way his hands gripped your hips, guiding you, holding you perfectly against him.

“so perfect, my beloved,” he murmured, voice low and smooth. you gasped as he held you down harder, causing you to feel him deeper. you continued to move, leaning down to kiss him as you did so.

each movement you made sent shockwaves through the both of you. with each roll of your hips, he pressed up into you, letting you feel every inch, every pulse, every heat-drenched curve of him. His hands gripped your waist tighter, thumbs brushing over the most sensitive parts of your skin, keeping you perfectly in place while letting you take the rhythm at your own pace.

“needed to feel you all day,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw and down your neck, teeth grazing lightly — like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or bite. “don’t stop. don’t you dare stop.”

armand looked at you with reverence — his eyes full of adoration. you were a masterpiece to him. it only made him hungrier for you. and armand was never gentle when he was starving.

your fingers slid into his hair and you kept moving, your dress sliding higher with each roll of your hips. you could feel how badly he wanted you — the tension in his body, the way he held you closer every time you tried to slow down.

“no,” he breathed, almost a growl — quiet, but absolutely firm. he pulled you down onto him harder, making you gasp, making you feel all of him. your breath stuttered. your thighs trembled.

“that’s it,” he whispered, eyes on your face, watching every reaction. “ride me. let me see you fall apart.” his hand slid down the front of your thigh and between your legs, fingers brushing exactly where you were already throbbing.

“you’re dripping for me,” he murmured, thumb circling lazily, wickedly. “look at you.” the sound you let out was helpless — something broken and wanting. and he smiled. that soft, devastating, “i have you” smile.

“come for me, beloved,” he said — voice calm, steady, sure — like it was already happening. like he owned the moment your body collapsed around him.

“show me how much you missed me.”

✶ ⠀ what being lestat de lioncourt’s lover is like :

1910’s lestat x mortal fem!reader ⟢ masterlist 18+mdni

starting off strong, he’s a drama king. he pouts when you leave, sighs like he’s auditioning for an opera, and insists he’ll “wither away without your company” as if he isn’t immortal. he’ll even clutch his chest when you tease him.

he stares at you when you talk. he simply just admires the view of the woman he loves. your mere existence is the most intoxicating and beautiful distraction for him. sometimes you’ll catch onto him staring and go, “lestat, are you listening?” he’ll just simply reply, “of course, mon cher” with a soft grin on his face as he looks at you like you hung the moon — obviously he wasn’t listening.

he never raises his voice when he speaks to you. he’s always soft with his tone. he’s too reverent of you to ever be loud. with every word he speaks, there’s love in his voice for you. the quieter he gets, the more serious he is. even when he’s angry, he talks to you like he’s afraid the sound might break you. his control is proof of him trying to be good.

he spoils you rotten. to him, he has a beautiful, whiny doll he created. he gifts you with luxuries a girl could only dream about, holds you close to him every night, and makes sure you have everything your heart desires. even when you complain about something small, he just leans down to rub your cheek and go, “mais vraiment, ma belle. what is it that you need?” — half teasing, half serious. his world revolves around you and it stops when you’re inconvenienced.

he loves your attention. he needs it. a glance your way can make him grin like he just discovered the sun. when you’re quiet, he paces, he worries. it’s a tragedy for him — a true injustice of you ignoring him. he’ll lean close when you finally speak, his voice soft but insistent, “parlez moi, ma belle, je meurs sans vous,” because again, he’s a drama king.

his apologies are even dramatic. expect flowers, an apology letter, and a gift of something he heard you think about. he can’t live knowing that you’re angry, so you never go to sleep that way.

he’s very affectionate. he needs your touch and lives to feel the softness of your skin. he’s always kissing you or his hands are always resting somewhere — the small of your back or your thigh. he needs to feel you. he’ll have you curled in his lap as he hums to you, reads, writes, talks, or just so he can hold you. he’s possessive in a way.

the jealous type. not the loud kind, but the kind that lingers in the room. his smiles turn tighter, his tone a little too polite, his eyes too focused. he doesn’t make a scene, but you feel it. the temperature drops a few degrees. the silence stretches. when you finally notice, he’ll just say, “does he make you laugh like I do?” — again, he’s a drama king.

protective. he’d kill for you, yes, but also he’s always there when you’re out. he petitions that he goes with you when you say no. “i just don’t want you out there alone, ma petite,” he’d say as he’d grab your waist, trying to be persuasive — he is. he’s clingy, he just won’t admit it. he calls it his love and protection for you.

his heart flutters when you tell him he can drink from you. to him, it’s an act of devotion and reverence when he does it to you.

his favorite position is missionary. but not in a boring way. he likes to watch you squirm under him and moan his name as he gives your body what it wants. he’ll wrap your legs around him and pound into you until you’re too dumb to remember anything but, “lestat.” he loves to see your jaw drop and stay there with your eyes rolling back as he makes you come undone for him over and over again.

he’s a romantic. he sets the mood with perfection. lestat was always the romantic type. he’d make a trail of roses to your shared bed, light candles, and make sure your favorite melodies are playing. once he’d get you in bed, he’d pamper you with kisses all over and treat your body like it was the most precious thing he’s ever laid his hands on.

sweet talker (is that a surprise?) he doesn’t stop talking either. he could be whispering the sweetest words in your ear as he pounds into you relentlessly from whatever position he put you in.

he moans in your ear when he’s inside you to make sure you know what you’re doing to him. sometimes he can’t help it, sometimes it’s to undo you even more. it’s his way of praising you.

“you feel so good, mon cher.”

“one more, hm?”

“taking me so pretty — so wet for me.”

he bottoms out and stays there sometimes just to watch you pout impatiently underneath him with your soft whines. “why so impatient, ma petite? you know i’m eventually going to give you what you want,” he’d tease.

he eats you out with devotion and precision. he does it to please you, of course, but he can’t help but to get turned on as well from the way you react to him.

he’s dominant. however, he lives for when you ride him. he craves it more than blood sometimes. he gets really vocal when you ride.

he can be mean, of course. sometimes he fucks his frustration right into you until you see stars. he’ll whisper the meanest words to you, yet he’ll still hold your body with care. he knows what you can take, and he knows how to push your limits. “so pathetic, ma belle. you’re already crying under me.” he loves to see you dazed with desire and teary-eyed from his cock drilling in and out of you. you’re his own personal art.

he’d last forever if he wanted to, he just can’t always bring himself to do so when you look so pretty while you’re all spent and spread open for him after having multiple orgasms that night simply because he couldn’t stop chasing the high of seeing you make those pretty faces and sounds that you made from the first one. eventually, he’ll get all in his head and boom, he’s coating your walls with his warm, thick cum — moaning your name as he did so.

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⟢ lestat de lioncourt ;

being his lover (fluff & smut)

⟢ louis de pointe du lac ;

⟢ armand the vampire ;

riding (smut)