𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌’𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒓𝒐𝒕

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 — call me [ nick ]. 23. afro-latino. they/he/she. pansexual. infp-t 6w5.

𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐦 & 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 — @denynothing

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 — solely dedicated to writing top & dom!reader. no fem reader. all characters are 18+. NO REQUESTS, only thirst prompts. do not steal, repost, or share on other platforms. ask before translating.

☇ all works on ao3 are only visible to registered users !

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 — masterlist. rules. kinktober.

𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 — ☀️🧇🕊️🚬🍽️👾💐🪻♣️🦄🌈🧪🎧🥀🍒🧶

[𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 - 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞.]

➔ i do not give permission to use my works for anything related to ai

HELP FOR GAZA 🇵🇸🍉

Lestat gasps awake, jerking away from the streaks of sunlight spilling from the open windows. His skin stings from where it touched him, knitting itself back together, and the coffin is open. Why is it open?

He sits up, calls out your name as he looks around the room, and tries to steady his shaking hands. There you are, kneeling in the gold morning light and staring down at your open palms. You are unharmed, and, somehow, that is more frightening than watching you burn.

“That which dies shall still know life in death for all that decays is not forgotten and reanimated, it shall walk the world in the bliss of not knowing. And there shall be a fire that knows the naming of you—”

“Mon chou, come to bed.” He says, but he sounds like that weak, fearful boy he thought he’d left behind. It feels like he’s there again, held in the air day and night, listening to the growing fury of an ancient thing.

“—and in the presence of the strangling fruit, its dark flame shall acquire every part of you that remains—”

“Come to me!” His scream finally cuts through your words, renders the room silent save for his heavy breathing. You rise to your feet and shut the blinds, join him when he holds his arms open for you. Your skin is warm from sitting in the sun for so long, and he holds you tight against him in the dark of the coffin. “We will find someone that can help you, mon coeur. I promise.”

Kenjaku first blames his growing obsession with you on his latest vessel.

It’s causing him to chase your affections with the greediness of a starved animal. He had to see you—every morning, every night. If he did not, then every meticulously thought out plan just wouldn’t work. It was the oddest thing!

He decides to humor it.

You’re a strong curse user, what’s the harm in it? You go on dates, hold hands, rut like shameless animals until his legs shake and cum drips down his thighs and still, he wants more. It doesn’t stop. It’s actually getting worse, he’s afraid. (He doesn’t want it to go away.)

He gives you a child with his next vessel, thinks that might be the solution—turning his attention to the next source of amusement. Perhaps your child will become a worthy adversary in the future or even a vessel. Except that child—yours and his—clings to his leg and smiles up at him with the shape of your mouth, the color of your eyes, little hands offering slices of fruit with the same loving selflessness inherited from your character.

The next vessel makes no difference.

And as he stares up at the ceiling, thighs spread to accommodate your body splayed over his like a living weighted blanket, he comes to a sobering realization. One that’s half a decade, three vessels, a house and a toddler too late.

He’s the problem.

He’s in love with you.

Hearing the incredulous huff that leaves him, you grunt against his temple and your hand comes up to cup the side of his face. “Go to sleep,” you murmur, fondly chastising, and kiss the scars he’s allowed to heal over. (When did that happen? When did he take out the stitches? When, when, when—)

The sound of your voice in his ear, low and husky from sleep, sends a shudder down his spine. You feel so good against him—warm and heavy, and your smell is everywhere around him. He squirms, hips rolling and seeking friction, and trails his palms down your back to cup the delicious curve of your bare ass.

“Fuck me first,” he says, because he feels like he’ll go insane if he doesn’t have you now.

You make a soft noise, sleepy but interested. “I have a mission in the morning.” The statement is a half-hearted protest at best, but your breath catches when he reaches between your bodies to wrap his fingers around your hardening cock.

“It can wait,” Kenjaku decides, smiling when you push up onto your hands to look down at him—hair mussed and eyes bleary. You’re so cute like this, he wants to have you forever. (He’ll start looking for a female vessel soon, give you another baby, he can preserve Geto Suguru and—)

His nails dig into your shoulder blades, head tossing back onto the pillow as your cock sinks into him, hard and slick and perfect.

uhhh cw for mentioned cannibalism and attempted suicide then murder of an unnamed character

—

“Y’know, sometimes I feel like you’re one bad day away from eating me.” It’s a valid concern, you think, but Daniel says it so casually that it’s very obvious that he’s not concerned at all.

Lestat scoffs, rolling his eyes like he’s offended for you, “Don’t be silly, Daniel, mon chou does not bite.” And then he goes back to dabbing up the blood on your chin.

“Yeah, Daniel, I don’t bite.” You grin at Daniel from over his shoulder, not bothering to retract the rows of sharp—and very not vampire-like—teeth protruding from your gums.

“Right.” Daniel averts his eyes with an amused huff. “And I’m Oprah Winfrey.”

You really like Daniel, he’s cool. He got over the whole nightmare fuel thing quicker than most, learned to avoid prolonged eye contact if he wanted to sleep well. Can’t say the same for the guy whose blood Lestat is so lovingly wiping from your skin.

Another fledgling that called himself an Armand Truther or some other equally insane thing, made you laugh right up until he described all the ways Lestat should suffer. You… don’t remember much after that, came to just in time to see him bashing his own head against the wall until his skull cracked open, letting out noises that could only be described as a feral kind of terror.

You didn’t ignore the hunger it summoned because who are you to deny a free meal?

fledgling looking lestat: rubbing against him and purring like a cat while he scratches your chin

Lestat doesn’t know it, but he’s kept from seeing the Horrors™ just because eldritch fledgling loves him a lot <3

—

Lestat is half laying on you, scrolling through his socials with one hand while the other absentmindedly scratches at your scalp. He smells like your shared body soap and the coppery undertones of blood. He turns his head to press kisses onto the curve of your jaw, smiling against your skin when that inevitable, rattling purr starts up in your chest.

You lean into his touch, eyes going iridescent and half-lidded. You’re content enough as you are, comfortably sitting together and watch at him look at things he likes (pretending you’re not actively staring at his soul and everything that makes him).

But he tosses his phone to the side and throws his arms around your shoulders, mouth meeting yours with a wordless sound that you identify as unabashedly happy. And then you have a lap full of him, lukewarm and happy and his soul’s shining like sparklers in the dark.

(Sometimes you want to look deeper—to peel back the layers and drive your fingers into the sinew and curl up in his ribcage and breathe him in.

His fledgling: