#lestat smut

Lestat was usually not one to follow the crowd. To listen to local gossip and fall for the temptation. But this was something he simply couldn't resist. He was a man of art and culture after all.

You were the talk of the town. Your talents as a dancer seemed to be on the lips of everyone around him. At first, he brushed the rumours off as just that. Rumours. But the more he heard them, the more curious he became.

He had heard talk of talented performers in his long life. Most never lived up to the expectations. But there was something about the way people spoke about you, peaked his curiosity tenfold. It was like your audience was entranced. Unable to say anything about other than your immense talent.

So naturally, he had to learn more. He asked around, listened in to the conversations of patrons in every bar he frequented. Somehow, they all seemed to know you. Lauding your talents, your beauty. The more he heard, the more Lestat found himself desperate to see you in the flesh.

Though trying to learn where you would dance next, that seemed to be a challenge of its own. There was no rhyme or reason to where you would choose. Be it a small bar, tucked away from the busy streets or a loud and lively club in prime New Orleans.

Yet somehow, everybody knew you. You were a mystery Lestat was determined to unravel.

The attentive eyes of your audience were just what you enjoyed. Knowing that everyone in the room was hypnotised by the sensual movements of your body.

You had a, as of now, well kept secret. Your talent had been honed over almost two centuries.

Before you had begun to live your immortal life, you had been a ballet dancer. Living a glamourous life travelling with your company. It had been a poor decision to walk home, alone, down a darkened street that had brought the dark gift to your veins.

But you had used it to your advantage. Bringing enraptured audiences in time after time.

New Orleans had been a treat. The audiences lapped up everything you gave them, sometimes throwing more money than was necessary just to spend those private moments with you.

For a long time, you kept a firm line between your work and your personal life. But the thirst would often battle you on that. So when a particularly enthusiastic patron would ask for more than private dance, sometimes you would allow yourself to indulge.

You had yet to meet another vampire, in the year you had been in New Orleans, however. You had made a firm name for yourself and you knew it wouldn't be long until you were noticed by those immortal eyes.

Little did you know, those are were piercing blue and closer than you thought.

Lestat spent almost a week trying to discern something about you. Even something as simple as what you looked like. Yet when he asked his fellow bar patrons, they only seemed able to say one thing.

You were the most beautiful woman they had ever seen.

That seemed to be the one constant. It didn't matter who he asked, they all agreed. It peaked a spark of curiosity in him. Yet he seemed to miss you at every turn. He would hear word that you were to dance at a club, then when he would arrive, his information would turn out to be wrong.

The mystery of you only made him more determined. Finding people he could trust in each establishment, prepared to call for him the moment you appeared. And night after night, he waited. Stubbornness was one of his many traits.

Yet, after two nights of not a single whisper of your presence, it seemed like luck was on his side. Apparently, you were preparing to take the stage at the Fair Play Saloon. Thankfully somewhere Lestat frequented maybe more often than his own home.

So, without a moment's hesitation, he was at the club's doors. The adrenaline almost burned through his skin as he entered.

You could hear the music outside the dressing room door, the low chatter of the patrons and the clinking of glasses. All the sounds you had come to adore.

Yet…there was something else. Someone else. And most certainly not a human. Apparently, those immortal eyes had found you. Yet their presence didn't feel as you expected. You could almost taste the curiosity.

You finished touching up your makeup, grabbing your large feathered fan before heading out of the door. The stage wasn't too far away, your dressing room having been crafted out of a nearby storage room to make the performance run far smoother.

The closer you came to the stage, the stronger that curious mind felt. It had been so long since you had been near one of your own kind.

"Showtime," you whispered to yourself, as the host helped you up on to the stage.

The lights dropped and it felt like every single eye in the room turned to you, exactly as you liked it. But one set of eyes stood out among the crowd. Piercing blue and boring into your very soul.

But as the music began, you forgot all about them.

Lestat could hardly tear his eyes away. The pearls on your costume glinting under the lights. As he glanced around the room, he saw it. The crowd was entirely entranced. Watching every sway and dip of your body, like you were the charmer and they were the snake.

But he couldn't deny it, the rumours were undoubtedly true. You were beyond beautiful. The kind of beauty that came with the dark gift. A beauty that had even his undead heart racing.

He could feel your mind. Lestat let the telepathic tendrils wander, his words slipping into your mind like trickling water.

"Aren't you a treat, ma cherie…"

He saw the quick tense of your shoulders, before you righted yourself, a small smirk appearing on your glossy lips. Yet you gave him no response. You barely even looked in his direction. Continuing your dance as if he didn't exist. Something Lestat was not used to.

The music changed, slower and more sensual now. The whole audience seemed to lean in, ready and waiting for your next move.

Your fan covered your body, teasing the crowd with the faintest hint of more and more bare skin. The sways of your body matching the tempo of the song. The lights lower and warmer. Lestat found himself leaning in just as everyone else did, hoping for even just an ounce of your attention.

How had you entangled him so quickly?

And when you still didn't answer him, he tried again.

"You truly have all of these cretins wrapped around your finger, don't you?"

You let out a small giggle at that, the disgust in his voice was more amusing than anything else. You couldn't help but answer this time.

"You included, it seems?"

A muscle twitched in Lestat's jaw at that. But he wasn't going to give in so easily.

"Is that what you want? To have everyone in the room hypnotised?" His voice was like silk as it entered your mind, somehow just as you expected it to be.

The song changed again, and you began to descend from the stage. Winding your way through the crowd. Your costume had changed too. The pearls hanging only from your neck now, the white gone and replaced with a deep, blood red lingerie.

You took your time. Lestat was sat towards the back and you seemed to be taking the path designed purposely to make him wait. Occasionally stopping to dance closer to a smiling patron.

And then you finally reached him. Wandering around the back of his chair to the beat of the music. Despite himself, Lestat found his body turning to try and look at you. Whatever power you had over the room had most surely taken over him.

But when you leaned in, arms slung over his shoulders and hands planted on his chest, he knew he was done for.

"Is that not what we do?" you whispered, your lips lingering close to his ear, "Bring our prey to a haze of obliviousness before we sink our teeth in?"

Lestat allowed himself to chuckle, his hand moving to grip your wrist. The room seemed to slow, nothing existing except you and him.

"Do you think of me as prey too, because I assure you I am not," Lestat snapped back, though there was no venom in his tone.

You huffed out a laugh at his answer. Leaning in impossibly close until your lips brushed against the skin behind his ear.

"Maybe we should test that, away from such prying eyes."

And then you were gone. The room almost whirring back to life as you continued dancing through the crowd. Lestat found himself staring after you, before flagging down the host. He pressed a small stack of bills into his palm.

The host seemed to know exactly what Lestat was asking for without a single word passing between them. It wouldn't be the first time a gentleman had paid for your personal attention.

"After the show is finished, sir, there is a lounge upstair the lady enjoys using," the host said simply, before disappearing with the money.

Now all Lestat had to do, was wait.

Though it had only been an hour, it felt like eternity. The moment the show had finished, the host sent someone over to Lestat to escort him upstairs. Even as he left, he could sense you. You were behind the stage, though he could feel the clamour of other voices around you. Other admirers, it seemed.

But he wasn't concerned. You had all but assured him your time would be his, before he had parted with any amount of money.

The host showed him to the lounge. It was likely one of the most luxurious rooms in the whole club, perfect for a woman like you. The deep red of the furnishings almost matching the colour of your lingerie.

Lestat took a seat on the plush couch, the host handing him a glass of wine before taking his leave. Assuring him you would be there in just a moment. He lit a cigarette and waited.

And sure enough, only a few moments later, you came through the door. A matching red robe now wrapped around your body. The way you stalked towards him was almost as though you were still dancing.

"Dare I ask how much you gave the host for this?" you teased, wandering over to grab yourself a glass of wine.

There weren't many moments you considered giving more than just a private dance. The way Lestat looked at you, like he was torn between tearing off your clothes or devouring you. You realised you would be more than willing for both.

You moved to stand in front of him. While you were completely in command of the stage, something told you that your admirer wouldn't be as easy to control.

"Enough for an entire evening," Lestat smirked, sipping from his wine.

It was then that you realised you didn't know his name. If you were spend your evening with him, knowing his name was likely the best place to start.

You leaned forward, plucking the cigarette from his mouth before he could take another drag. Lestat smiled, immediately offering his own name as you gave yours in return. Now the pleasantries had been exchanged, you turned, wandering towards the record player in the corner.

The slower number you had danced to on stage began to play. You let your body move, not as practiced as your dance downstairs, it was almost instinctual now. Lestat held a hand out to you. He didn't want you to stand and perform for him, he wanted to feel every movement of your body.

You took his hand gladly, settling into his lap. You slipped the cigarette back between his lips as you began to grind in his lap. One of his hands settled on your hip, not controlling your movements, but simply wanting to touch more of you.

He docked out his cigarette, the other hand joining in its hold on your body. Your body lifted and turned, the sway of your hips never ceasing as you now faced him. Lestat let his hands wander. Massaging over the flesh of your backside, squeezing the flesh and feeling the silk of your lingerie against his palms.

Your fingers tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat, letting it fall open as you moved to pull at the buttons of his shirt too. As his chest was bared, you leaned down. Kissing a winding path from the centre of his chest and up to his throat. Letting your teeth graze the column of his neck, before moving up to his jaw.

You kept control of your rhythm. The slow roll of your hips almost torturous. Yet Lestat had a feeling this is what you enjoyed. Having a lover at your mercy.

"Tu es une déesse…" Lestat groaned, holding tight to your hips and beginning to roll your hips against his hardening length.

One of your hands tangled in his hair, pulling his lip to yours for a hungry kiss. It was a battle of tongues and teeth. Your nails scraping against his scalp as he pulled your body harder down into his lap. You could feel him beneath you, hard and pulsing, desperate for release.

Your free hand gripped the back of the couch, steadying yourself as you continued to roll your body painfully slow. Grinding down until his head fell back against the couch. Soft grunts leaving him as desire flowed through his veins.

"Alors adore-moi…" you whispered against his lips, trailing them back down towards his throat.

He tried to grip your hips, tried to make you move faster. But you held firm. A hand on his chest keep him leaned back against the couch. Your hips not speeding up for a second. He could feel the dampness between your thighs, already soaking through your underwear to his trousers.

It made him feel like his body was on fire. His cock twitching in anticipation. But just as he felt the beginnings of his release biting at his spine, you stopped.

"Did you think it would be so easy? That I would let you find your pleasure so soon?"

You were more than a tease. It was like you had been sent purely to tempt and torture him. And he was loving every moment. Lestat growled, trying to roll his hips to meet yours. Your hand smacked against his chest, earning you another impatient growl.

"This is no game…" he hissed, but he wanted you to continue.

It had been so long since he had given up control to another. To have his pleasure rest in the palm of your hands. It was intoxicating.

"But you are enjoying playing, aren't you?"

Lestat pulled your mouth to his. Biting at your lower lip as he kissed you. That was answer enough. Your hips began to move again, a little faster this time. Enough to have him gripping your hips with almost bruising force.

This was going to be a long and enjoyable game. Vampire stamina was something else.

Had it been hours, minutes…neither of you knew. But it didn't matter. The pleasure in the room was electric. Like lightning breaking the sky in a storm. Four times you had stopped, four times Lestat had been on the brink of release only to be denied. It was a beautiful torture.

His hands roamed your body, caressing every inch like you were the most precious treasure. Your pace was slower now, though you could feel him pulsing beneath you. One more, that was all you thought you could hold out for. And you imagined Lestat wasn't much different.

"Again? I think we can manage one more, hmm?" you asked, as Lestat's lips peppered kisses over your neck and collarbone.

His hands moved down to grip the flesh of your backside, a silent urge to move again. But this time, there was a desperation to it. Lestat held you tight, moving his hips in time with yours, chasing his release as you chased yours.

Your desire was like fire in your veins. Your core hot and pulsing at just the idea of your release. Lestat let his head tilt back, exposing his throat to your hungry mouth.

His hands palmed at your silk covered breasts, just as your teeth scraped against his skin with enough to make small droplets of blood trickle down. The only sound that filled the room was the sound of your gasps and moans. Lestat's nails digging into the flesh of your rear as his other moved to tangle into your hair.

It was almost primal. Chasing your pleasure like your very lives depended on it. You were he first to fall. Sighing out his name as your hips rolled against him. Four times seemed to have lit a fire in both of you that could not go unsated.

Lestat's hands moved back to your waist, slamming his hips up into yours until he growled out your name. You felt the hot, sticky mess that spilled from him even through his trousers, mingling with the slick gush of your own release.

The room felt hot, heavy. The smell of smoke and sex thick in the air. Your movements began to slow. Breaths neither of you needed to take panting in the silence of the room.

It had been so long since you had given pleasure away to someone you hardly knew. Yet at the same time, you felt like you knew him.

Maybe it was the kinship that came with immortality?

Lestat was the first to move, holding you with an arm around your waist as he reached for two cigarettes. Slipping one between your lips and then his own. Lighting both with swift clicks of his lighter. You both smoked silently, the curls of smoke intertwining between you, much like your bodies had been only moments ago.

You shifted to sit beside him, throwing your legs over his lap, smirking at the damp stain on his suit trousers. Lestat's hand rested on your thigh. Something told you that this wouldn't be the last time you would see him…tonight or otherwise.

And you found yourself hoping both would be true.

Lestat Taglist:

@lady-phasma @sylasthegrim @anjelicawrites

Lestat de Lioncourt

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Sex with Lestat is never the same so even aftercare changes based on what kind of dynamic occurred between you too.

When It's rough with Lestat fucking you hard and fast, he is the one taking care of you afterwards and he's very soft with his touches and words. He caresses your face and looks into your eyes to see if you're alright, before moving down your body to leave sweet kisses, checking for any tension or pain.

When you're the one fucking or riding him, he tends to go into subspace, especially if he trusts you enough to let himself go. Lestat likes to be held afterwards as you tell him how good he's been for you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Lestat loves his chest a lot, and his torso in general and loves showing it off. He walks around shirtless most of the time when there is only the two of you. He loves also his hands and fingers as they can create the most beautiful melodies with piano and violin, but also with your body.

Lestat loves everything about your body, but if he had to choose he would say your thighs. They're soft and warm, and he loves having them around him anyway he can. It's also his favourite place to bite and drink from you since it is very close to your most intimate parts.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Lestat cums a lot, and often. If you want to swallow or not makes no difference to him, whatever makes you confortable is fine to him. But he has a thing for marking you with his spent, particularly on your face and ass. It gives him a sense of ownership that he can't really get enough of.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There aren't many secrets connected to sex that Lestat is afraid to reveal. Though, he sometimes he wishes he could duplicate his body to get the chance and thrill to make love to himself. For real.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

I think it's pretty clear given what we know about him. And Lestat puts that knowledge to good use every single time -- finishing unsatisfied is not in his vocabulary.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Anything that would allow him to see your face. Missionary, mating press and lotus are his favourite and they can be done on any kind of surface for his great joy.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Only when you're making love. When dawn is close and you're both sleepy, he lets out his softest and goofiest side. It's enjoyable on a completely different level.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Oh yes, the carpet matches the drapes and there is not need for imagination considering his love for low-rise leather pants while he performs on stage. Still, they are perfectly cured but he would never shave completely and doesn't need you to do it either.

Lestat grew up in a time period where depilation wasn't really a thing, after all.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Lestat is a sweetheart in bed when he has a strong emotional and physical connection with the other person. He would say the most romantic things you've ever heard in your life, with a vomit of filth following right after.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

I would love to say he doesn't need it, but Lestat feels everything so very deeply and this also applies to sexual desire. He came untouched on stage while performing so, if the need arises and he's alone, he would touch himself without a second thought.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

There are many I believe, but the top three for me are: praise kink, overstimulation and exhibitionism (not fully in public, but where he might be seen like against the window or on a balcony at the top floor of a building).

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

If he needs intimacy the bedroom, anywhere in the bedroom. Probably the bed is left for the last round of the night.

Otherwise, any surface is feasible to him as long as it's perfectly clean.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Well, Lestat's libido is very high (we know why) so he truly doesn't require much. A prolonged eye-contact could lead anywhere with him, and I think it's beautiful.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that involves even a slight dubious consent for both, or multiple, parties involved.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Lestat is both a giver and receiver. He really likes oral sex, it's fun and it's filthy in several ways.

Considering his age is very skilled, but being old doesn't make anyone good at something by default. Lestat is good because he has a talent, he knows how to lick, suck and how to change the pace to get the best reactions out of his partner.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

As everything else with him, it depends on the situation, but Lestat feels best at a slower pace where he can roll his lips deep inside you. The same goes when you're riding him, soft and deep is how he likes it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Of course. Right before a show, right after, in the car on the way to a party -- he's efficient, five minutes is all he needs if he cannot take his time properly.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Lestat is always open to suggestions especially if proposed by his partner, as he feels most desired that way. He'd give a try to anything as long as consent is respected.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Who needs to do cardio at the gym when there is Lestat ready in your bed? He goes multiple rounds if he can indulge with your body for hours and he'll make you come several times each session.

Stay hydrated.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Lestat doesn't mind them, there is no toxicity in him in that sense. He's not jealous of an object, but he sees it as an opportunity to keep the pleasure going even in the brief refractory periods he requires between rounds.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Look, Lestat is a brat. Teasing is foreplay anywhere and anytime, so never lower your guard otherwise you've already lost the war before the battle starts.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Loud as fuck 90% of time, but there are moments especially while making love that he goes quiter and lets out small whimpers right in your ear.

When you ride him, though, he whines a lot. You need to put your hand on his mouth sometimes or muffle his sounds in some ways. He likes it, of course.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He sometimes wait for you on the bed wearing lingerie. Mostly yours.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It's a vodka bottle. (Cit.)

It's not extremely long, but surely above avarage. He's thick, though, and he's learned how to be mindful with it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Sky high. You punished him with no sex for two days once and he started apologising for things he never did.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After the post-coital buzzing finally calms down, he falls asleep quickly with you in his arms. And he purrs.

---

Armand

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He's very ritualistic even with this act. He rests just for a couple of minutes before getting up to fetch a wet cloth to clean your body thoroughly.

If he feels safe with you, he might let you do the same to him.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Armand loves your neck. One of the reasons is very obvious, considering the pretty vein that runs there, but also the neck muscles never lie. He can monitor your emotional and physical state just from that.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He prefers finishing inside for it's cleaner in his mind. Also, Armand likes the idea to leave a something of him in your body afterwards.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

With modern technology he discovered a passion for nudes. No one has painted him for centuries, so he does it with his phone (or iPad).

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Similarly to Lestat, he's very experienced due to his past and trauma. Using those skills to bring pleasure to a person he loves and truly cares about makes him feel slightly better about it. It feels cathartic.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

I think he likes trying different positions where he can body his partner's body as he pleases; he wants to test your limits even in those situations.

With this said he enjoys Chair-y On Top, a lot.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Extremely serious during intimate moments, it's too intense for him to be goofy about it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Like every aspect of his being, Armand is very cured. He doesn't shave fully, but he trims every three days.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Armand is very suave and romantic when he allows himself to just be himself and with you, and if he's comfortable with you might reach new levels of intimacy throughout your time together.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He normally doesn't, his restraint is very strong. Sometimes he even thinks that denying himself any pleasure even from his own touch is a punishment he deserves.

If he reaches a limit, he might go out hunting to release some tension.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Quite a few. Some are still dormant I think, but surely: edging, shibari and blood play.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He wants you to be comfortable as usually a session with him lasts hours and he doesn't want you to be in pain when not necessary.

So mostly the bed, sofa, even the floor but only if there are cushions and a carpet to make it more manageable.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The second you start playing with his hands, you have his full attention. Put a single finger in your mouth and suck on it lightly and you're done for. I don't make the rules.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Blindfolds. He gets scared if he can't see what’s being done to his body, and he would never put you such a practice either even if you wouldn’t mind.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Oral sex to Armand is devozione, it doesn't matter if he's giving or receiving.

But if he has to choose, he'd prefer to give. Mainly, he likes doing it with the partner standing up to see how long it takes for them to crumble under his actions.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He changes based on his moods, so you never know what to expect. He likes to give hard and fast thrusts, but he always pulls out slowly until only the tip is inside to torture you.

If you're riding him or fucking him, he likes to see you let loose, getting lost in his body with abandon.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

No quickies for him, he needs to take his time to enjoy you fully and his need arises when he cannot indulge his desires, he waits.

The longer he waits, though, more intense the sex will be afterwards. You're in for a ride.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He's seen things on his iPad he's never imagined before, and when he finds something new he wants to try he brings the iPad to you immediately. No words uttered but you feel the intensity buzzing under his skin.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

It's not like Armand goes many rounds, it's just a single never-ending session where you stop counting the orgasms at some point and Armand comes only at the end. A bit of self-inflicted edging.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He likes to try new things so he does enjoys toys, but only uses the ones that help enhance the experience.

He has a fascination for vibrators and cock rings alike, they have different levels and he can play with that a lot.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Armand is a teasing menace. He doesn't do explicitly which is worse, and when you beg him to stop and do something he'll pretend not to know what you're referring to.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's not loud, but he whimpers a lot with an occasional groan. But when the pleasure is really intense he goes completely silent, the only clear sign is the deep frown on his face.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Spanking. He wants you to act like a brat so that he can satisfy his need to leave marks on your skin -- and he asks you questions with every spank, if you stay quiet or if you give wrong answer he starts again from the beginning.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Not too big and not too small, not too thick and not too slim. The perfect size to touch all the sensitive spot, with a slightly protruding vein on the underside.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

When he's not in a relationship, he doesn't really think about it that much. With a companion the situation is quite the opposite; he doesn't manifest it explicitly but you know when he wants you by the way his hands keep touching even the smallest sliver of your exposed skin.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It takes quite a long time to fall asleep afterwards, and he likes it that way. Armand's soul is quiet rarely so the bliss he feels after sex is something he really treasures and he tries to make it last as long as he can.

---

Just as I finish stuffing my tips anywhere they'll stay in my tight, glittery outfit, a pair of slender fingers with a large banknote between them reaches for me.

I momentarily still.

The generous tipper grins, lopsided and hungry. He tilts his head to the side, his blonde hair brushing against the shoulders of his expensive suit.

Normally, my heart would pound at the look of him, but tonight, it was only the loud bass thumping in my ribcage. I take his money, immediately smelling the fresh ink on its sleek surface. I walk to the pole and decide to humor him, as I won't be entertaining him with anything else tonight.

My eyes lock with his soul biting blues as I grip the metal beam in front of me, doing my signature move on it. It's easy, though advanced. I've probably done it a thousand times. Somehow, it feels different, though not because I missed a mark or moved the wrong way, but because I was off— I'd been off the entire day.

The audience doesn't notice, none of the did. They didn't care. Why would they when she could see my ass real good from this angle?

My nostrils flare as I descend to my knees, finally finishing my routine. I immediately pick up the remaining bills on the stage and thank my patrons with a half-hearted smile.

"You look stressed, mon cheri."

I look up through my lashes, finding the same fingers holding another large banknote for me.

"I can fix that," he leans his elbows on the edge of the stage.

I take the bill from him, "I won't be doing a private show tonight."

His brow quirks along with his lips, "oh?"

I stand and look down at him.

Though his expression is subtle, he looks intrigued, challenged. He clearly thought it was pet play like most other nights we've shared. Part of me wants to tell him otherwise, to tell him I meant it, that he should take me seriously, that he ought to LISTEN to me— but I don't... because I know what will happen if I do. The thread sewing my sanity together will snap and I'll be torn from the seams.

I exit the stage and head to the back. The dressing room is filled with chatter and sweaty, half-drunk performers with body shimmer and dollar-bills sticky on their skin. I head for my locker and change without a care for decency. My cool skin is immediately warmed by my worn tracksuit which was once hot pink and now baby pink.

I stuff my performance outfit into my bag and grab a small plastic of kibble, stuffing it into my pocket along with my lighter and cigs. I head to the rear door with a red neon exit sign that emerged to the dingy alleyway that was never not damp or dark.

The flimsy metal roofing of the building beside us warbles and creaks with the strong gust of wind. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself as I walk towards the flickering bulbs on the side of the strip club the owner constantly promises to fix.

I place the stick between my lips, pull my lighter out, and sigh. My breath condenses slightly. I cup the spark as I try to light a flame. One. Two. Three. "Fuck," I hiss as my hands uncontrollably tremor. It's not because of the cold.

My eyes begin to water as I aimlessly observe my surroundings whilst hopping place in an attempt to psych myself up and expel my extra energy. I pull the cigarette out of my lips and few deep breaths before trying again.

I cup the lighter and flick: one, two—

I start and gasp when I feel something brush against my leg. My cigarette nearly drops from my mouth, but I thankfully catch it.

An orange cat rubs against my calf, looking up at me as she meows. I put the lighter back in my pocket, exchanging it for kibble. I crouch down and pet Mimi. She purrs and leans into my touch. I feed her. She gratefully begins crunching up her brown pellets and I straighten back up, reattempting to light my damned cig.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I gulp and shake my hands before trying again.

Five. Six. Six and a half. Seven. Eight.

I shake my lighter and curse at it.

Nine. Ten. Elev-

One.

I turn to my right, finding an orange flame in front of a white man. His golden lighter slowly inches towards my needing cigarette.

I pinch my stick between my pointer and ring finger. I watch its tip begin to burn. I inhale deeply and throw my head back, sighing out the smoke.

"You left me waiting."

I turn to him, taking a swig before responding with a smoky exhale, "has it been five minutes already?"

"I am not one to be kept waiting."

I watch him bring his hands into his coat pockets. I watch his face harden in that subdued manner that always made goosebumps crawl up my arm. I take another hit before looking away, "I told you I wouldn't come."

"I can see that," he quips.

I sigh, willing my shoulders to relax. They don't seem to want to remain relaxed. I flinch at the particularly loud bang of metal as wind slams the wobbly roofing into its spot. I clutch my chest and catch my breath.

The cat meows. I look down at her. I puff out smoke before tapping my stick. I was about to give her more kibble but the poor cat pulls her head back as ashes fly to her face. She doesn't wait, she runs off. I call out for her, feeling terrible for the unintentional harm I gave.

As she disappears, a tear runs down my face. I sniffle, feeling my throat tighten uncomfortably. This was all I'm good for, aren't I?

I turn, gasping in surprise when I see the same face beside me. The sight of him does nothing for my nerves. I clutch my chest once more and screw my eyes shut.

He watches a tear roll down my cheek.

I shake my head, pulling my cigarette away from my lips, "I'm sorry, I-"

"Thought I would be gone?"

I feel a chill run up my spine as I bring my light back up my lips. My tremors do me a disservice. I miss my mouth, thus knocking my stick out my grip. I skid back, watching it fall, then reach for it like the junkie I am. That is, until a gleaming leather shoe stomps it.

I peer up with a whimper.

"Enough," he says.

"I was still—"

"And now, no more," he decisively quirks a brow.

I shudder and rise to my full height, eyes beady and wronged, jaw hard and clenched. Had he been a lesser man, maybe he'd feel intimidated, maybe perhaps pitiful. Alas, he was not a man.

"You're far too jittery to be-"

"IT WAS HELPING ME!"

He looks at my frantic face. He watches me scramble for another light.

Before I can even get another stick, the pack is no longer in my grip. I hiss and glare, eyes no longer able to hold the mist fogging them. "LESTAT!"

He raises his brows and crosses his arms. For someone who revels in the sound of his name, he does not like the way it is presently called. He resists an eye roll, "Dawn."

"Give it ba-"

"No," he shifts in his spot.

My nostrils flare and I step forward to punch him.

He lets me. He does not recoil at the assault and merely chuckles before gasping, "resorting to violence so quickly? How primitive."

I am allowed but three blows before he grabs my wrists.

"Use your words, pet," he leans towards me, "and I may yet still reward you."

I groan and try to wrangle out of his grip, futile as the attempt may be. My flesh could not be quelled by my reason. I persist anyway.

Lestat feels the feebleness of my form in his grip. He sees the misplaced passion in the frustrated movements. With a huff through the nostrils, he releases his hold and stares idly.

I recoil, exhale sharply, and scratch my eyes, "fucker."

He rumbles, ancient and bone chilling.

My stomach drops as his mere step forward.

"Careful," he mutters, "you've not only cut me off but as well cursed me now."

I gulp and flinch at his definitive warning. I know better than to push his patience any further, and yet the irrational side of me that has currently dismantled my sense of self-preservation urges me to see how badly the penance shall be for my impertinence.

He sees it. The flicker of foolishness behind my eyes. He might have been amused by it, had the defiance been a form of foreplay and not a direct road to a tenser argument.

I shiver, this time because of the breeze that cuts between us. I clutch my arms.

Lestat shifts on one leg and tilts his head, "tell me then what has gotten you so weepy."

I look away, only to have my jaw grabbed and gaze drawn back to him.

"You know I will get my answer one way or otherwise."

I huff and grip his wrist. I squeeze him but make no attempt to pry him off.

He watches my eyes fog with more tears.

"I'm sure you already know," I mumble.

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, "that's not how the game works, cheri."

I feel my shoulders slump as I recall the memory that has made me this way.

He can hear it, but pays it no mind.

"Please. I don't..."

My tear runs down his hand.

"... you'll throw me away."

His brows furrow.

He releases my jaw and takes a step back. The act makes my heart rattle behind my rib cage.

"You take me as one so weak-minded?"

My face twitches almost painfully.

His own does as well. He points a finger to the ground as his teeth clamp tightly into each other, "I will not be further insulted by a wailing babe who clearly does not deserve the comforts I so graciously offer, or would have offered had I been met with the same graciousness."

The cold dismissal is like an iron clamp around the neck. He was ever a stickler for dramatics and had a penchant for peeling the narrative back enough that he remain the subject. I knew deep down that was what was playing out, and yet my mania drives me to grab his suit and ultimately crumble further into myself. I half expect him to push me away, to berate me, or even hurt me, but instead he just stands there. I can feel him staring at me.

"Are you just going use my tie to blow your nose?"

I sniffle and wipe my nose on the sleeve of my tracksuit.

He sighs, placing a hand on my shoulder.

The weight of his hold grounds me.

"Grab your things. We're leaving."

I nod silently and sniffle once more.

My duffel is severely out of place in his home, though you could barely see it in the darkness that shrouded the room. He plies me with drink and watches me wipe my wine stained lips on my sleeve with raised brows.

He mutters something in French as he shifts on the settee beside me.

I stare at the painting before us, its grandness and opulence make me feel small, well, smaller.

He, himself, finishes his own drink, "the night does not grow younger."

I turn to him.

He puts his glass down.

I decide to just say it, to jump the gun and forfeit the sugarcoating, "Guido is dead."

Lestat is unmoved. Physically, he remains the way he was seated, body facing mine, one leg folded in front of him, one arm on the backrest, one finger pressed against his temple. Emotionally, he finds no remorse, not even as more tears wet my face.

My lips and voice wobbles, "I- I should be... I should only be relieved, because he was a- a piece of shit, but I–" I wipe my face and lean my head back. I groan into my palms.

His gaze softens, but make no mistake, not the past lover who he many times thought of delivering to death's door himself. "Dawn."

"— I did love him."

The thought is sickening, no, enraging.

"I loved him once, before he used to hurt me."

Lestat does not respond.

I slowly lower my hands and turn to him. My heart skips at his unnaturally blue gaze that seemed to glow with a fury in the darkness.

He watches me shift uncomfortably until I mirrored his position.

"Lestat."

He takes a moment. He brings his hands to his lap, "Dawn."

"I don't..." I fidget with my fingers, "I don't mean to..."

He waits for me to explain, but I do nothing of the sort. I can't. He watches me pick at my nails before reaching out. His hands are cold but not clammy like mine. "Love is a treacherous thing. It is all neither here or there yet everywhere and nowhere."

He rubs the back of my hand with his knuckles. I gulp, feeling my skin tingle with goosebumps.

"I can make you forget."

I lower my gaze and shake my head, "I-" I shake faster, "I would just find out again. My boss is in the pocket of his mob."

"I could kill your boss."

I look up at him.

His brows raise in question.

"Please don't kill my boss."

He grumbles under his breath.

I lower my gaze again.

This time, he clutches my jaw and leans in, "then shall I make you forget another way?"

Before I can respond, his lips are on mine. I sigh, hands gripping his vest as I feel his cool lips melt against my hot mouth.

He does not wait. His fingers find the zipper of my jacket and slowly he pulls it down.

"Lestat," I moan against his mouth.

He hums, slowly leaning further into me, knees crawling towards my own until he straddles my lap. He breaks the kiss, taking in my form as he pushes my jacket off my shoulders. "Are you going to ask me to stop, pretty thing?"

I whimper and slowly disagree. I gulp when his hands clutch my chest. My breath hitches as thumbs brush over my nipples.

"Good," he purrs, "I would have gotten very cross with mon cher if you did."

His lips find mine again, and soon, my head is spinning. He pulls my jacket off me then breaks the kiss to push me into the cushions. He takes my legs, ridding me of all other articles of clothing, and slowly pushes them into my chest. He slots between my thighs, grunting as he hovers over me. I whimper as he ruts into my crotch.

"Tell me what you want."

I reach for his cheeks and arch my back, "I want you to fuck me."

I yelp at the cold blob that splatters onto my chin. He bares his fangs after spitting on me, "and you mean to kiss me with that filthy mouth of yours?"

I whimper when he forces my legs further into my chest.

"Don't let your misplaced grief make you forget yourself."

I shake my head and find myself trying to lick his spit, "n-no."

"Mmm, must I teach my toy proper manners," he begins to undress himself, "or perhaps I should treat you like the dirty whore you are?"

I feel my pulse in my core as I watch him expose his toned abdomen to me.

He reveals his displeasure in his native tongue before grabbing my cheek, forcing me to look him in the eye, "I believe I asked you a question."

My breath hitches as I nod rapidly, "I- punish me."

Lestat gasps as though he'd been thoroughly scandalized. He even releases one of my legs and hover his fingers over his lips just to break into deep chuckles. He gazes down on me in rich amusement and slowly begins to sink down.

I whimper and lift my head to capture his lips in mine.

He snorts, kissing me back nonetheless, hand coming to my neck, "delicious," he presses down with a bit of force, "it would be my pleasure to punish my shining Dawn until there's nothing left but me."

I keep my head lifted, watching his nails press dimples into the back of my thighs. Soon, I cannot help but throw my head back when he captures my sex into his mouth. My back arches and my fingers tangle into his blonde locks, tugging slightly as he licks me up and slowly begins to slobber.

Lestat's head inflates at the sound of my moans and mewls. He feasts hungrier, until the mix of his spit and my arousal begins to coat my inner thighs.

"Lestat," I whine, legs coiling around his head, heels digging into his back.

He hums, spreading his tongue, tasting me deeper. His one hand finds my hip and pushes me in place; his pointed nails bite into my pliant flesh.

Keep going. His voice is clear and commanding in my mind.

"Lestat, please," I groan, throat constricting at the spreading pleasure, "r'making me feel so good."

He hums, the vibration adding to the sensation of his mouth. I gasp at the slight nip I feel from his teeth. I open my eyes, which I hadn't even realized I closed until he pulled away from me. He gives an open-mouthed sigh, slick and saliva glimmering on his lips and chin. He slowly grins, "can't have you coming so soon," he licks his lips, "this is a punishment after all."

I whine and shift in my spot, immediately regretting my words, "no, wait, please—"

"Shhh," his hand clutches my jaw and neck, "I did not tell you to move, did I?"

The weight he pushes on me makes my stomach flip. My lips wobble, "no, sir."

He grins, nearly all his teeth on display. He chuckles and hums, "I see truly that all you needed was a heavy hand."

I breathe a bit deeper to compensate for the pressure on my neck.

"Well, mon amour," he pushes my knees together with his free hand, "would you like to get on your knees for me?"

"Yes," I answer the instant.

I nearly choke on my breath with how eagerly I twist onto my hands and knees. I gulp and turn to him from over my shoulder, panting as if my movements were far more strenuous than they really were. I mewl when he brings his hands to his belt buckle. I bite my lip and find myself rocking back into him as he pulls his pants down.

"Filthy thing," he coos, freeing his cock from his constraints, "I'd have taken you for an easy little slut had I not known any better."

I hum and chew my lip, "but I am an easy little slut for you."

His expression darkens. He grabs his length.

I hiss and turn to the cushions, gripping it as he smacks my sensitive entrance with his evidently hard cock.

He pushes me down and shoves his groin against mine, pulling a shaky and squeaky groan from my throat.

I hum and heave, "m-mon coeur." My heart.

He hisses, head sinking down to my shoulder to mumble strings of French before he nicks and sinks his fangs into me.

I moan loudly into the cushion, hips grinding back into him as he presses his body into me. His hand finds my sex and lazily strokes it, making my thighs shiver. The pain from my shoulder only intensifies my aching need for him deep in my core.

He gulps, retracting his teeth before licking the puncture he's inflicted. Spit and blood dribble down on my skin as he slowly straightens up. He rubs the curve of my ass, "shall I fuck you now?"

I squeal and nod profusely, "yes, yes! PLEASE!"

Lestat hums and looks down at me. He spits and the glob that hits my mound makes me flinch. He takes two fingers and pumps my entrance a few times, making me moan in anticipation. "Eager for me, yes?"

I whine, "so eager, so eager, so eager, so—" my babble is cut off by the feel of his cock invading my insides. I groan and arch my back, feeling winded and full of him.

He snorts and slowly begins to thrust, "so tight and warm for me."

I turn my head but helplessly rest on my cheek when he pushes me down by my shoulder blades.

Soon, my whining is overshadowed by the sound of slapping skin. Soon, the sound of slapping skin is overshadowed by my lewd cries. Soon, Lestat shifts and pushes my legs further apart with his, gripping my thigh tighter and lifting it slightly to fuck me deeper. My body is a sweating, throbbing symphonic of pleasure at how he takes me from behind, his balls slapping deliciously into me with every thrust.

I feel my eyes water, "mmm, Les— I'm close."

He huffs, kneading the flesh on my hips, "come for me. Squeeze my cock and milk me dry."

I focus on the feel of him and gradually rock my body in tandem with his thrusts.

Lestat reaches for my hair and pulls tightly, making me suck a sharp breath as he slaps my ass, "I told you to do something, mon cher."

I whine and nod, mumbling dumbly over and over, "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming." And then I come, feeling my body clench him tighter as an intense wave of pleasure crashes down on me.

Lestat rides out my pleasure as he chases his own, and soon I feel him throbbing as he spills into me.

Once we were both sated and panting, he sluggishly pulls out and licks his lips. I whine as I turn to face him, feeling my core throb at the sight of his glistening cock. He sighs as he leans down and kisses my lips.

But now, in the middle of July, when even he, a cold-blooded creature, seemed to warm up under the near-tropical sun, it was hard for him to attend his usual ballets, operas, and plays. Usually, he would prowl the streets until the early hours of the morning, finding a couple or a gaggle of friends that had finally finished partying to tap blood from. Spirits genuinely spoiled the sweet, metallic taste of blood, but a single, even petite woman would be able to get him drunk. And oh, how he enjoyed lounging around even more after that, his sky-high confidence peaked impossibly higher, and the skip in his step just a little more enthusiastic, albeit wonky and less coordinated. But now, the sun rose even before six, right when people were coming out of densely decorated townhouses in their gowns and jewels, stumbling across the alleyways where Lestat would usually pounce. The sun also went down too late for him to catch his shows at the nearest theater.

One day, he found himself leaving the city center for a change, tired of walking empty, boring streets and having to kill only the ones that were already dead, to society at least. Beggars in torn and dirty clothes, money-hungry conmen with snake oil and opiates, and street preachers that would fall to their knees if they found out what daggers he hid beneath his lips. Until one day, one faithful summer evening, mere minutes after the sun had fully set and the sky no longer had any color aside from the grey clouds floating overhead, he found his new target. She was mysterious, prowled around at night so much that he, for a beat, questioned if she was one of the few other vampires wandering New Orleans.

Only, she wasn’t. Her blood was fresh, sweet, young, and untouched by the curse of age and time. She never spoke to anyone on the street, and her glance was always aimed at the sidewalk or the street, if not the many different types of birds that sat on the railings of balconies overhead. Lestat knew most about her: where she went to eat, where she bought her clothes, where she sat to read her fantasy novels, even where she lived. He also knew that, unlike the front she had put up, she was far from Christian or Catholic. Only did she go to the church to fit in—and occasionally stare and daydream at the sight of black-clad nuns who hid their beautiful figures under shapeless gowns and veils. It was like she wondered what was beneath it, and if she would ever see such a thing from women so modest. She was curious, odd, yet only Lestat seemed to ever notice that about her.

After months of tailing this woman, Delia, her name was, Lestat decided it was finally time to invade more than just her privacy and personal life—he was going to break into the apartment she had bought with her father’s inheritance after he died from pneumonia. He’d heard her conversing about it with a priest at the man’s funeral, which Lestat had naturally watched from afar. Strangely enough, she seemed not to care in the slightest when the coffin was finally buried. It only made him wonder more.

The Vampire had to scale one of the buildings to break into a window he knew Delia kept open. Finding her leather-bound journal and reading it revealed to him that she kept this very window open to let in the smell of petrichor whenever it rained—which, in the summer, was nearly constant. He read about her fantasies of medieval knights and kings, of monsters, amongst which were vampires, and that her mother had become handicapped due to a traumatic brain injury, now to be indefinitely taken care of by Delia’s younger brother at her familial home outside of the city.

Her stories of her family and the tragedy surrounding it weren’t long, ten pages of perfect, flowing, curling words at the very most. After that came her thoughts on those beautiful, graceful nuns, even some words on the priests that roamed and heard her out in the confessional, though they weren’t nearly as passionate as the next few drafts and scribbles in that journal, some of the words smudged with drops of ink as if she’d, in her passion, had pressed the pen down too hard.

Delia’s thoughts were direct on paper, as if they wrote themselves when that pen of hers contacted the little book. She spoke of working women, whores, ones she’d only dared to come to in the dead of night when even a city as alive as New Orleans seemed to die. Lestat had to sit down on a nearby couch when he read these vile sentences in utter entertainment, detailing every single night of wickedness that Delia seemingly savored with every inch of her being.

It was as if these prostitutes had corrupted her poor, innocent mind. The pages after another female-friendly quarrel seemed to peak in their godlessness. Lestat read thoughts of pain, finding pleasure in it, the way she seemed to enjoy it whenever grabbed by the throat, and how she could not stop thinking about the time a whore bit her neck in the throes of passion, how it sent her thoughts reeling into a realm of the romanticization of filth.

Lestat enjoyed these deeply personal stories as he read, and even lit the candles scattered around the room in bronze candelabra to create a cozier ambience to read in; it almost felt as if they were friends. He knew every small, minute, disgusting detail, and she wasn’t even aware of his existence at all. He would’ve probably read it in her journal if ever she had seen him and was suspicious about his presence.

. . .

Delia’s return home was nothing short of a shock, the smell of melted wax filling her mortal nostrils as she ascended the stairs to her apartment. It was peaceful inside, and well lit with flickering flames. As if somebody had suddenly decided that she needed a roommate.

She moved further inside on careful feet, her steps quiet to her own ears, but loud to Lestat’s preternatural ones.

When rounding the corner of a particularly large, ornate, hardwood cabinet, the vampire finally came into view. He was sitting on her couch as if he owned the place, her book of secrets open in one of his hands, the other balled up into a loose fist to hold up his head as he leaned his elbow on the couch’s armrest.

“Ah, you’re home.” His deep, rich, and smooth, French-accented voice rang through the house, mingling with the ambient crackling of wood in the fireplace. “These stories, ooh la-la!” Taking out his fist from under his jaw, he fanned his face with it, a flair of dramaticism in his action.

“Who the hell are you?” Delia trembled, demanding answers with two balled fists and a fast-beating heart. She wasn’t going to allow this man to take her house, or her dignity, whatever it was he planned to do with her. When her eyes flicked to a brand-new letter opener on the salon table in front of Lestat’s legs, his eyes followed hers.

“Kill me?” He scoffed dramatically, throwing the open journal on the table with a thud before rising to his feet, making her cower and step back a few feet. “You mean to kill me? My love, I mean no harm. You are simply so… intriguing. One would be mad not to, ehm, snoop.”

“Get the hell out.” She snarled, her heart jumping as she kept her eyes firmly on his form—only for him to disappear in the blink of an eye. A gentle gust of wind hit her when he flew past, and soon he was behind her, taking her jacket like a pseudo-gentleman. The smell floating off his garments could only be described as musty and earthy, like the wet bark of a tree after a rainstorm, or brown leaves that had long since fallen off their host and dwindled into a cold puddle on the pavement. She was petrified with fear, yet her heart pumped a fierce hit of adrenaline through her veins, even as this man seemed to pose no threat.

“Ma Cherie…” He tutted behind her, and with another gust of wind that swept her loose curls over her left shoulder, he stood in front of her, about two feet away. Close, but not too close, merely close enough to inspect and smell her. “You wound me so, can’t you see I mean you no harm? I’m simply here in search of a companion, and I couldn’t help but let my eyes and mind linger.”

“A companion?” Delia scoffed at the man, having to crane her head slightly to look up at him. She was five feet and four inches; he may have been six feet at the least. “This is how you seek companions, is it? By breaking in and reading what is to be kept private!—"

Lestat twirled a lock of his thick, blonde hair around his right pointer finger, inspecting her as a painter would inspect his model. There was no grace in his look, bright blue, icy eyes staring at her bashfully. Sinfully, almost. Like he was seeing through her clothes. “Well, I suppose I understand the anger. Though, maybe I would be a little more grateful if I were you.”

“Grateful?” Her eyes flicked to the book on the salon table. “What will you do now, huh? After you’ve read my darkest secrets? Will you rob me, kill me, or rape me? Will you tell the church so they come after me in your stead?”

A genuine, humorous laugh ripped from the man’s throat. His mouth was wide open, chin pointed up at the ceiling, and now she could clearly see.

Fangs.

Four of them, pointy and white, untouched by time and corrosion.

She exhaled sharply, stepping backward on instinct as if she had just been punched in the gut. This couldn’t be, no. It couldn’t. Vampires were only real in her imagination, in her dreams and nightmares alike.

“They say it is never polite to play with your food.” Lestat’s eyes met hers when he tilted his head down again, his pupils wide with both hunger for the blood and excitement of the kill. She stood still, petrified beyond her limit, yet concealing her fear. “I agree, it isn’t. But that doesn’t take away the fun, does it, Cherie?”

“What are you going to do?” Delia’s pounding heart rang loud in Lestat’s ears, like a distant drum, taking over the sounds of the outside world and creating a lovely rhythm in his head. The smell of her changed, more adrenaline surging, yet there was fear now, far more than there had been, now that she knew she was in his mercy. “Don’t kill me, I beg you.”

“Interesting.” He kept his focus on the sound, quickening as he stepped closer, his scent intensifying in her nostrils. “Now you cower. Now you beg for mercy. And, I promise you, my love… As much as I enjoy hearing the cries of the damned, I’m merely here to play.”

A new scent tickled his senses, arousal. She was aroused, whether by the sight of him, or his smell, his deepening voice—he couldn’t tell. He had tried to mostly tune out her thoughts, enjoying the hunt and the mystery of her, but now that he tried to probe, there wasn’t a single thought. With furrowed eyes, he watched her, trying to enter an empty mind, one running purely on instinct and need.

“You have no thoughts,” Lestat exclaimed. Her heart kept thrumming in his mind. “Are you flustered?”

Delia didn’t respond; she couldn’t. The mere thought of his vampiric nature had turned her on beyond belief, more than she ever had been. There had been many debaucherous nights in brothels and bars, ones that her conservative peers would deeply disapprove of, but never had she felt so primal. Like a wolf and a lamb.

“Allow me to tell you what I plan to do.” She gasped as he took her arm, guiding her to the couch and setting her down with a hand only slightly too rough to be friendly. She sat and looked at the journal again, then at the letter opener, then at the gorgeous vampire looming over her. “I plan to drink your blood, but not to kill you. You are simply too interesting. I feel a kinship.”

Delia sat motionless like a scared cat, trying to get her emotions in check before she would make any hasty decisions. She felt a pull to him, one so strange, alien, as if she were a prisoner falling in love with her captor.

“Do you want this, Delia?”  Her name on his lips pulled a soft gasp and a twitch from her, her cheeks heating up from the way he drew it out in a sultry rasp. In the back of her mind, she knew his question was a fad. She had no choice in this. The thought of such subjugation only drew her in closer. This was carnality in a godless, even inhuman way.

It was as if there were swinging pendulums in Lestat’s bright, undead eyes, his fangs sticking out his upper lip slightly in a haughty grin when Delia finally nodded. Normally, he enjoyed a little bit more of a fight, but this strange girl was so intriguing that he put his preferences to the side completely.

Maybe, after this was done, after Lestat had had his fill, he would change this pretty woman. Her dark eyes would turn bright, perhaps grey or red, and she would hunt for prey by his side, forever. She already seemed lovestruck even without the grace of the Dark Gift. Lestat wanted to see all of her.

“But first,” The vampire spun gracefully on his heels, away from the girl to a small side table on which she’d propped up a flask of brandy. He poured her a modest serving, then dropped the crystal in her hands, taking a seat beside her on the couch with crossed legs.

“Don’t you—” Delia held the glass out, all of the fervor and anger from before suddenly gone. Maybe he had a true claim on her emotions, or maybe she was simply an impressionable mortal.

“Non, chérie.” He waved the offer off with a limp hand, his nails perfectly sharp and elegant. “We cannot eat human food, or drink human drinks.”

“Oh,” Delia took a tentative sip, allowing the hard liquor to slide down her quivering throat. “Don’t you miss it?”

“Mortal food?” Lestat scoffed, flipping some blond hair out of his eyes with a dramatic flair. “No, dear. I much prefer the taste of blood, and besides, you know where that brandy goes when you drink it, no?”

Delia blinked at him with a mouth full, swallowing it. “My… blood?”

“mhm-hm.” He tipped the glass up with a finger when she took another sip, making her swallow all of it as he watched. “Brandy adds a lovely sweetness to the blood, and I get to feel that buzz your kind chases on warm Saturday evenings.”

“Buzz.” She chuckled, allowing the vampire to take her glass and place it on the salon table. The buzz, as mentioned, came soon after. Lestat sat on his knees in front of the couch, watching her, inspecting the throb of the widening veins in her neck.

“What is it you enjoy?” Lestat rose, strands of his blonde hair falling in front of his eyes as he reached a hand out, which Delia took with little hesitation. The drink was making her more fearless, deeply enthralled and intrigued by a very real, and very dangerous vampire at her fingertips. “Sexually, I mean.”

A flush came over her as he led her to the open space in front of the fireplace, where he spun her with grace and practiced agility. The situation was absurd, yet she couldn’t pull herself out of it, like she was in a trance set by this French, very sexy vampire. “Why don’t you tell me instead? You’ve read all my deepest thoughts, and yet you’ve ceased to even tell me your name.”

“Observant.” He nodded, a proud smile on his lips as he once again pulled her along, now to the small bedroom hidden behind an ornate paneled door. “First,” He sat her on the plush bed but refused to lower himself, almost as if he were subconsciously reminding her that she was below him. “I don’t have sex, chérie. Not in the way you do.”

Delia watched as the vampire walked around her room, lighting the candles with a simple glance. Not a match was in sight, yet somehow the flames flickered over his chiseled face.

“Second, my name is Lestat.” He drew the word out, the final ‘t’ drifting off his tongue due to his western European enunciation. It was as if he said his name so slow to make her remember, to allow her to savor every vowel. “You will remember my name, won’t you?”

“Yes.” She nodded as Lestat gracefully drifted back over to her, removing the blue, swallow-tailed coat he had been wearing and tossing it over one of the bedposts. Underneath he wore a crème-colored shirt with billowing sleeves, ruffles lining the cuffs and falling over about a quarter of his perfect, hairless, large hands.

He watched her then, appreciating the pink hue on her cheeks and the way the very top of her stays bounced slightly with the beat of her heart. Oh, how he longed to stop it, to drain her completely and grant her a new life, to have her by his side forever. Together they would certainly be an interesting pair, far too outspoken and dangerous to haughty society.

“Lestat?” Delia’s southern accented voice was soft and higher pitched than before, now filled with intrigue and arousal rather than fear and anger like it had been before. The sound of his name on her lips would have made Lestat shiver if he were still a mortal.

He laughed ever so slightly at the hint of a plea in her tone, his lips curling up into an innocent smile. “Yes, my love?”

“How does one such as you live without sexual gratification?” Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him, pupils dilated.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, my dearest little nymph.” Though Delia would’ve shown her teeth at any man using that word, which would normally have been spat in an imputative tone, she enjoyed the way Lestat had said it. His voice carried praise. “There is an inherent sense of… eroticism in the drinking of blood.”

Delia chuckled softly, wiping her clammy hands on her dress in a coquettish fashion. The way she had been imagining Lestat’s kind had been true.

Now her thoughts were returning, her mind filled with obscene images of her and Lestat in bed, a dangerously depraved pair. She craved it more than anything, more than the whores, more than the teasingly covered nuns.

Lestat bit his lip when probing her thoughts, swimming through images of them naked, of what she imagined his body looked like, what it would feel like to have him deep inside and to cradle him after. But it wasn’t like that, he wouldn’t be able to grant her such things, not with what had been rendered lifeless after his transformation, what hung between his legs.

“Is that what you think of me?” He finally allowed himself to fall on the bed next to her, undoing the lace near the collar of his shirt. “I cannot give you such things, chérie. My nature doesn’t allow it.”

She turned to him with hungry eyes, tracing down his neck as if she were the blood hungry monster instead of him. His blatant infringement of her thoughts seemed to be of no importance to her. “So then drink my blood, Lestat. I want to know what it’s like, and I want you to enjoy it.”

Lestat’s hand reached for the tie in her hair, pulling it loose with ease and wiping her locks away from her untouched neck. She could smell his signature scent as he leant close, kissing her neck tenderly for only a few seconds, then pulling away. The smack of his moist lips alerted her, and her heart thrummed while waiting for the bite, only for the vampire to laugh and whisper in her ear. “Déshabille-toi pour moi.”

Take your clothes off for me.

She nodded as if in a trance, and they both stood to work on her garments. Luckily she wore only a few layers due to the heat, a soft sheen of sweat visible when Lestat had successfully undressed her all the way down to her white stays and bloomers. He only had to untie a few strings to make the last items fall down onto the pile of fabric at her feet.

“My, my,” The vampire drawled sensuously, inspecting every inch before finally reaching out to grab her waist. She gasped at the icy-cold digits on her sensitive skin, looking up when he had her nearly pressed against himself. “Believe me, love, I do miss it—I do so miss being inside pretty things such as you. Though it can never as much as come near the thrill of the bite.”

“You won’t kill me, will you?” Delia’s voice was softer now, somewhat insecure without the protection of her garbs.

“Not yet.” Lestat answered while tossing his hair back and rolling his sleeves. “I want to taste you first, over, and over, and over. Until it bores you so that even death seems more interesting. Then, if you wish, I shall change you.”

Any normal human would have cowered and ran, but the girl smiled. She wanted this, and she wanted him. He took her over to bed again, laying her down on freshly fluffed chicken-feather pillows before crawling over to her, like a panther ready to strike. With blown-out, hungry pupils he stopped right above her pubic mound, lowering his lips to the skin of her stomach and kissing his way up. Only did he nip once or twice, though saving the bite for her beautiful neck.

“Do you want this, truly?” He whispered once at neck-height, once again kissing, feeling the stream of blood under his lips.

“Yes. Please.”

He moaned softly at the sound of her desperate voice, breathing deeply while exclaiming a soft “putain…” before allowing himself to feed. Delia’s hands shot to the vampire’s soft hair when his teeth sank in, an icy spike of intense pain shooting throughout her neck and dispersing into her shoulder.

It was like a dam breaking, tainted blood flowing into Lestat’s hungry mouth, the cries of his darling victim ringing in his ears like the most beautiful sonata he’d ever heard. Her blood was sweet and had a faint punch to it from the alcohol consumed earlier. Lestat could almost remember the taste of brandy undiluted with blood.

He moaned deeply as he drank, pushing closer as if to mold his body into hers, his eyes rolling back with preternatural pleasure. Slowly his skin cleared up, and it seemed almost as if it were glowing with Delia’s shared lifeforce.

She weakened, her heart slowing, eyes drooping, her grip failing. The two of them shared a moan when the vampire finally ceased his drinking, hovering over the girl with a  blood-stained mouth. A mixture of the blood and Lestat’s saliva dripped onto her pale lips, where she licked it off, fierceness still present despite her drained state.

“How does it feel?” Lestat crooned, wiping a tear that had slipped from her eye and threatened to roll into the shell of her ear. She was happy, laughing, and extremely drowsy. “Do not fret, dear, you are nowhere near the end. I merely drank enough to make your body a little… confused.”

“I—I don’t know.” Delia squirmed beneath him, desperately trying to focus her eyes on anything, but failing. “I feel… like I’m floating, but also like I’m falling.”

“You,” Lestat flicked her chin, then affectionately and gently bopped her perfect nose, “are an immensely brave girl.” He watched her sweet smile for a second, drowning in the glimmer of her eyes while panting. “Now, I think it is most appropriate for me to return the favor of pleasure.”

Before Delia could answer, his hand was cupping her wet sex, running a finger down the slit—a finger that was now warm with her own blood. She moaned weakly at the contact, her vision spinning as the loss of blood slowly manifested into the feeling of nausea, something she was able to ignore for the time being.

“Yes, darling.” Lestat moaned softly at her pleasure, probing her mind in an attempt to share some of the sensation. It was there, faintly tingling in his loins, though not nearly as agreeable as mortal sex, or blood drinking for that matter. His long finger soon dipped into Delia’s wet, taut pussy, welcoming his hands with unwavering need.

“Lestat,” She moaned, letting go of him when he sat back on his heels, hair hanging in front of his eyes when he introduced a second digit, and then a second hand. One pumped his fingers in and out with practiced precision, the other rubbed her clit in tight, perfect circles, making her quiver. Nobody had ever made her feel this way, made her ache so deeply for release. “Yes, please, please,”

“Petit lapin, you whine so, and you don’t even know what for.” The vampire laughed, his fingers curling, drawing more desperate moans and pleas from Delia’s used and tired throat. Arousal began to drip from her, and the scent of her sweat filled the clammy room. “Let it come over you, my love, just as you did before. If you stay still and listen to me it will feel better.”

Her skin burned with arousal, her tired legs twitching  back to life as Lestat continued his ministrations on her. His hands were so perfectly trained that the movements felt vaguely clinical, like some perverted doctor ‘treating’ his female patient. She shivered at the thought, welcoming the fantasy for a brief moment. The vampire raised an eyebrow and chuckled at her when he saw the vision too, shaking his head.

“Naughty. So very naughty. Nymph.” He spat the last word out slightly, though there was still not a single trace of malice in his voice. He loved her depravity almost as much as he loved himself. The sensation strengthened in his lower stomach, alerting him to his muse’s imminent orgasm. “Let go chérie, let go. Do it for me.”

After a few more pumps and some encouraging words from her newfound vampire lover, Delia finally cracked. Her tired, half-alive body writhed and shook with the orgasm that crashed through her in waves. Lestat’s hands continued to work until the very end, until she sobbed from the overstimulation. Only then did he stop and lick his fingers clean.

“There.” The vampire stood, leaving the girl to recover in bed while he found a mirror to fix his hair in. She watched with confusion, grabbing his coat off the bed post to wipe her sweaty forehead wit it, surely staining the expensive fabric. Though he didn’t seem to care.

“You have a reflection?”