Sugarplum_chum

False cheer and a mindless smile can only be worn for so long as armor before the cracks show. And your cracks are chasms of despair that you have to climb your way out of every time Lestat’s eyes find yours during shared hunts.

The blood tastes like poison. It sustains you. Each night you wake in your coffin starving for it; but to actually choke it down is torment. Blood is not just the taste of metal, or phantom flavors of food your fledgling body can no longer tolerate. Blood holds memory. It holds feeling. A thousand snapshots of an entire life seeping into your body, one gulp at a time.

Lestat’s prey of choice is the other predators that go bump in the night. Monsters wandering the edges of society, looking for prey themselves. And when those monsters set their sights on you, their mouths water. The things they want to do—intend to do, because they think you helpless and for the taking are sickening. To them, you are a waiting receptacle for violence that had so far escaped its fate.

You’re losing track of how many nights you’ve spent on hand and knee trying to force the rancid blood from your stomach. Hoping expelling it will expel the last fantasies of the beasts you’ve eaten: so depraved that they spent their last precious moments of consciousness on grand imaginings of defiling another living creature. It’s beyond reason. Beyond sanity. Vampirism has put a knife in your hands that you’ve used to cut across the soft stomach of humanity, and what’s come spilling out instead of innards and organs is all the world’s evil.

You’re a broken thing after every kill, and finally it becomes survival of the soul against survival of the body. You stop eating. What other choice is there? There’s a madness clinging to the edges of your mind, encroaching upon your every thought. What would the sun feel like? Or fire? Better than this, surely. Anything better than this.

But you continue to go out each night. Even as movement becomes pain, and your skin takes on the sallow coloring of the truly dead. If you don’t keep up the farce of hunting, it will be war with Lestat. Your battered heart couldn’t survive a harsh breeze, much less a cruel word.

The levee breaks despite all the sandbags you’ve piled at its feet, because no disaster can be held back forever.

Lestat has followed you on this night where you stumbled from the house like a drunkard, delirious from hunger poorly hidden, lying for the umpteenth time in a row that you’d discovered a taste for hunting alone. You sat on a park bench for hours. Unmoving. Eyes closed. When dawn was only an hour or two away, you finally drew yourself up, and with trembling legs dragged yourself home.

An ambush was your welcome.

“This is how you honor the dark gift I have given you? By starving yourself?! Lie after lie, and how boldly you told them.”

“I’m not trying to starve myself. I just don’t--“

“Don’t what?” This is too much for Lestat. Too much for his heart to take. One failed fledgling after another. Refusing the gift. Refusing him.

Tears well up, even as you fight them back. When they fall, they cut bloody lines down your cheeks. Carelessly exposing your pain to the world. “I hate tasting it on them. All that…that hate and violence and evil. I don’t feel like some dangerous predator when I can taste the things these fucking animals wanted to do to me in their blood. I feel like prey, Lestat. And I can’t escape the feeling when their fucking taste is still hanging in my mouth, okay?!” Your voice hits a fever pitch, becoming a tattered and broken yell.

Saying the words finally does not bring relief. This is not sitting in a church confessional and telling your pastor how you have sinned, so that he can forgive you, and you can go about your day blameless and clean afterwards. To speak these words to Lestat, who has gone on endless tirades concerning ungrateful and disappointing fledglings of eras long past, is to tell him he has made another mistake. Chose the wrong one again. Sunk his fangs into something weak, with a sullen disposition to match. There will be no forgiveness here.

The naked rage on his face as he stormed into the room, demanding answers—will there be any love left in the wake of your confession? Or, tired of coddling surly newborns of the night, will he abandon you?

Blood tears are harder to see through than ones of water and salt. You’re grateful for that, though. You don’t want to see whatever expression Lestat must be wearing now. Disgust, maybe? Hate? You reach blindly for the lid of your coffin, trying to slam it shut on the world and your maker.

Lestat’s hand catches the lid so harshly it sounds like the bark of a tree being mangled by a car spun off the road. You hear the metal hinges of your coffin break. Try not to flinch when Lestat flings the broken lid back against the wall.

You’re expecting rage. Not his hands cupping your face, forcing you to look at him. “Mon ange…I don’t. I do not understand.”

“It’s like poison. Like picking up arsenic every night and expecting it not to kill me this time. It’s hell, Lestat. Wake up. Drink a murderer. Sleep. Wake up. Drink a rapist. Next day, some pimp. But they all taste the same, like death rotting on my tongue and acid eating at my brain. Knowing everything they wanted to do to me before I ripped their throats out.”

Lestat stares at you for so long you think he may have forgotten he’s capable of speaking more than French or Italian. Stares as if you are some alien creature from an unknown world, and he is parsing out first contact between your species. Terror beats against your chest during every second of silence.

His thumb brushes across your cheek. He opens his mouth, finally—what comes tumbling out is not a cold rebuke for your lack of a killer’s spirit, but a sob.

“I did not… I did not realize what the… prey of desire is always the easiest catch to make when you are so young. And you’ve such a gentle heart I did not think you could bear the killing of an innocent…I did not realize that I was…” Hurting you? Killing you one drop of blood at a time?

Is this his fate? To be so incompetent a maker that he guides every fledgling to death’s door?

Unbidden, a promise he made to Gabrielle more than a century ago springs to mind: Do not taste the fire or welcome the sun until we meet again.

Lestat pulls you from your coffin into the tight circle of his arms and knows this promise may be the only thing stopping him from mimicking the fate of his own maker and throwing himself into the flames.

You were such a joyous fledgling in the first few weeks. Humanity had been your chrysalis, and vampirism was your hatching. You’d drunk of his blood eagerly and deeply. Without coaxing or begging, you’d welcomed the change.

He had soiled it. In trying to prevent the makings of another Nicki or Louis, he had doomed whatever beautiful creature you were becoming.

None of this he could bring himself to say out loud. Terrified you will go from finding fault in yourself to finding fault in him—he cannot bear to say ‘I am sorry’, so that you will know how plainly he’s failed you.

Lestat hunts alone now, and he hunts for two. Engorges himself on the blood like a vicious tick before he crawls home to you, pulling you into his lap and lifting his wrists—pink and warm—to your fangs in offering. A supplicant bringing gifts of worship to his god. Whispering for you to drink all that you need, while he cradles you close and tries not to weep.

It reminds him of being a pauper lord hunting for rabbits and scrawny birds in the woods, trying to keep his family from starving.

You can hardly bring yourself to look at a violent human. To expect you to tolerate the sickness in their blood any longer is a cruelty even Lestat is not capable of. And he won’t force you to feed on fucking goats and vermin because he guided you so woefully.

He kills only the ilk that turned your stomach and dimmed the light behind your eyes. The deaths are masterpieces of brutality—as if he can make up for what he’s done through petty vengeance. Imagine he hadn’t tainted you with their darkness. Imagine he did this from the beginning. Imagine you’ve only ever tasted love, and devotion, and tenderness from the start; let’s just pretend for a little while, mon ange.

He just hopes all his love and regret is sweet enough that blood stops tasting like a punishment soon.

ARMAND:

This will be the most dangerous moment of your relationship with the ancient vampire. He prides himself on his singular understanding of your inner world. What you are. Who you are. These are things Armand believed himself to understand above all else—and in the face of such a catastrophic miscalculation of the conditions you would thrive under, he thinks it might be a mercy to kill you both.

The first few months of the change are crucial. A talent all coven masters develop is the ability to take one look at a vampire and know if they could survive the eternal dredge and misery that lay in wait for them on the long road of immortality. He had deliberated on giving you the dark gift for years; and had only broken when the thought of living without you outweighed the fear—no, the reality—that all fledglings grow to resent their maker.

Would you not have all the right in the world to hate him now? How careless he had been with you. His salvation. It was a wicked thing to have stolen you away from the promise of heaven your tender soul would have known at the end of your days, had he allowed them to end naturally. But he had damned you and then neglected to care for you properly.

It was one thing to give up your soul for the potential of a few thousand years. But with your heart so heavily marred by the darkness he’d allowed to fester right beneath his nose, you might only bring yourself to live for a measly hundred years.

Armand wonders if you will even make it to an even hundred now, as you weep tears of blood into his lap.

If he hadn’t changed you, he would have been capable of reading your mind. Might have averted the disaster you now find yourselves in. But he had changed you selfishly. Wanted only his blood flowing through your veins once he had decided you were to join the League of the Undead. He should have gone to Lestat or Louis on bended knee, begging them to give you the gift, so that he could forever look into your precious mind and be capable of preserving its once pristine joy.

You had been so happy when he asked you to be his eternal companion.

He runs a gentle claw over your scalp and thinks about how easy a thing it would be to end this torment before it has truly begun for you. If Armand can only bring himself to perform one act of selflessness, you will never have to experience a hundred, three hundred, seven hundred years of a suffering he couldn’t have possibly conceived for you... and he will not have to bare a hundred, three hundred, seven hundred years of guilt and agony over things he cannot possibly protect you from.

The blood you can bring yourself to hunt for holds nothing but rot and ruin for you.

He cannot protect you from the blood. From nourishment. Your heart is strong enough to kill to survive, but not to withstand the taking in of such vile evil. Even as a vampire, you have retained a powerful semblance of a soul, and it is such a tender one. He could save it now, even after the rot of the dark gift—if only he were strong enough.

But Armand has never been one for bravery or selflessness.

He steels himself against the uncertain path ahead and moves to kiss away your tears. Your blood is sweet on his tongue.

Every night he wonders if he’s created his own doomed and beautiful Nicki. Wonders if this is divine punishment, and if it is, how can he beg a God indifferent to a vampire’s prayers to punish him, only him, and not his beloved; but so few of Armand’s prayers have ever been answered he knows it’s a moot point.

He prays regardless.

DANIEL:

Daniel would catch the warning signs early. You can only hear so many tales gone wrong from the Ghosts-of-Vampires-Long-Past explaining how they all fucked it royally (and uniquely) with each of their fledglings before paranoia sinks in. He doesn’t have to make the mistakes to avoid them. He knows the playbook.

It’s a blessing to learn from the mistakes of the idiots who’ve come before him.

Daniel’s isn’t a perfect maker. He’s little more than a fledgling himself when he turns you. But what he doesn’t have in experience he makes up for with spades of: we’re in this together and I’m never gonna leave you to figure it out alone.

Still, his mouth has always and will always be what gets him into trouble. Especially in his relationships.

Seeing you standing over your latest kill, face endearingly messy because you still bite at the blood more than you suck it, choking back sobs sends a jolt of terror through his soul. He’s created a Louis of his very own as punishment for tormenting Lestat, and you’re about to try selling him on a diet of bullshit.

What he says out loud is, “Sweetheart… what’s wrong?”

“I just… I dunno, Daniel.”

“You’re making me nervous, babe. What, did the guy taste sour?”

A beat, and then your leg kicks out, sending the still warm corpse flying at the wall hard enough to dent the plaster. “He tasted like a fucking monster who was thinking of hurting me until the moment his heart stopped beating and I wish I could fucking throw up to get the taste out of my mouth of rapist pig.”

Daniel takes in the anger on your face. Wishes he could revive the mangled dead guy in the corner just to kill him again for putting such a heartbreaking look of helplessness on your face. “Why’d you keep drinking him?!”

"…Excuse me?" You ask, coldly.

“No, wait, not like... I mean... Christ, isn’t this your fourth rotten bastard like this?”

“Yeah.” You sniffle, looking like you want to spit up blood your body just can’t spare as one of the newly dead.

Daniel takes a step forward, wiping your face clean with his sleeve, licking away what doesn’t come straight off—waste not, want not. “Baby, if drinking the scum of the earth makes you want to cry instead of enjoying your food, I’d kick open a church and kill a room full of nuns for you so you can taste something sweet. Why don’t we find you something nice to wash that taste out, alright?”

Your eyes go wide, the same color as his. They look better on you. “What the hell happened to killing people who are evil so we can live with ourselves after a few hundred years?”

“I can live with anything just fine, as long as you’re happy, and I’ll teach you how to live with it too if that’s what you need me to do.” He leans over and kisses you on the lips, careless and easy, because he won’t let this turn into centuries of misery for either of you.

He glances across the room and focuses on the unlucky meal that has ruined your night, letting his anger spark until the body itself catches fire.

Daniel was born with a splinter of coldness. Born to be a vampire. And you were born to be his matching set. He won’t let anything stand in the way of the two of you and a supernaturally long, happy life—certainly not a few lousy leftovers of human morality.

LOUIS:

Louis is a fine-tuned machine when it comes to taking notice of the early sproutings of all forms of vampiric misery.

You would not taste the blood of the man who's mind promised threats of horrific violence if only he could escape your grasp. Louis would see the look on your face, catch the trembling of your hands as you brought the man closer and closer to your fangs.

Stalling for time. Not playing with your food. Disgusted by it.

Louis' hands find your waist, painfully gentle, jolting you back to the present and away from the dark void of this man who should already be dead and drained. "There's no shame if we need to start with animals."

The words are free of judgement. His tone is painstakingly soothing—anticipating the first of many panicked breakdowns to come. Only logical, considering you were his fledgling, for him to assume you had taken after him on initial dietary woes and melancholy. But he’d walked through the worst of those fires and felt grateful for all the misery of his past now that it might help him guide a creature so deserving of enlightened and kind mentoring.

Your hands are shaking where they’re wrapped around the man’s collar. There’s a hatred in his eyes that turns your stomach. Your mouth is watering from hunger. You can taste the blood pulsing beneath the thin barrier of protection that is a human being’s skin.

But Louis has told you fresh blood holds memory, sensation. It is not like the deadened blood from the bags he’s tenderly been pouring into mugs and bowls, as if that will somehow turn the blood to tea and soups, and keep you human a little longer.

You do not want to experience the blood of the beast writhing at your feet.

“Sweetheart? There’s no shame if you can’t do it yet. We have an eternity to get to this part.”

“It’s not that.” You shake your head sharply, starving and angry. You have a perfectly good meal in front of you that you know will make you sick if you bite it.

You feel like a plucky young hero in some old fairytale, having wandered across a tempting feast laid out in the woods. Clever enough to know the food is cursed, you still want to bite into it, consequences be damned.

“I don’t think I want to taste what this guy is thinking about me.” You hiss, tossing him away from yourself in disgust. You don’t quite know your own strength yet. His arm breaks when you throw him down. A week ago, before you could read minds, the sound would have made you sick. Now, you’re only tempted to pick him up again and break the other one.

You don’t get the chance. Louis had been so focused on you, eyes and ears tuned to the channel of your every hitched breath and micro expression he hadn’t bothered turning his mind to the thoughts of your first vampiric meal proper. But once he does, he’s glad he gagged the man before dragging him in here to you. He’d only done it so that if the man screamed, as so many do, it would not frighten you.

The man’s thoughts, vile and vivid, make it clear he should have been gagged for another reason. Louis reaches over and snaps his neck before he can poison your mind with anymore of his painfully human evil.

Warm hands cup your face as he steps between you and the body. It’s as sweet a gesture as it is ridiculous. Protecting a vampire from the sight of a body that deserved a far more painful death.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, honey.” He says fiercely, dragging your face to his and kissing over your cheeks and temple, like he can kiss away everything wicked about the world.

“It’s alright, Louis.”

“No, it isn’t, and you don’t need to pretend it is. Not for me. And you will never have to do anything you don’t want to do. You don’t have to worry about disappointing me or putting on a brave face—none of that. My job is to take care of you. That’s the most important thing in the world to me. It’s the only thing, actually, alright?”

You let yourself lean into the earnest, almost desperate affection of your maker and nod.

“Why don’t we get you a few blood bags warmed up, and we’ll find you a better meal tomorrow. Something more pliant for your first time.”

Louis leads you out of the dining room, away from the dead body cooling on the rug, the way you might step around a dead rat on the street.

He’ll clean up once you’ve gone to bed. There’ll be plenty of years for you to learn how to do that too. For now, he will give you all the grace and patience he was denied in a maker, and hope it lays the groundwork for a happier vampiric temperament.

A/N: i hope this story is as coherent as i think it is considering i was still very much recovering from the week of big health scares while writing it. please enjoy <3

if you enjoyed these headcanons consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer’s fuel is engagement. if you really loved this, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo

American theater is so intriguing, no? Some of these shows just lack elegance and real, true, talent. But, that is sometimes the point, right? Lestat did not have high hopes for this little...production. If anything, he only came out of curiosity and a sort of nostalgia. Something about the little hole in the wall theater reminded him of his own uprising with the traveling performers, or perhaps even what used to be his own little theater in Paris. Of course, his own theater had been...nicer than this little... honestly could you even call it a theater?

He wasn't sure why he was so picky tonight, this was a thrill, no? A rush! Something that was not perfect, and of course, sometimes art was not meant to be perfect. After all, it's not like this was 'Cyrano de Bergerac' anyways. It was meant to be silly, a little something new for him to admire... But this? This is honestly not what he expected... and he was upset.

There was no true talent on this stage, no time put into this at all, no respect. Lestat honestly was debating getting up and leaving, but then he heard this voice, and he was stopped.

God, aren't you adorably pathetic?

Why you were not a lead in this production, was baffling to Lestat. You could act far better than majority of the mortals he had watched grace the stage this night, but your voice is what caught his attention. That voice. It was so...strained. Your voice was strained. The best part? You knew.

You had so much confidence, standing up on that stage, doing your part, but all Lestat had to do was take one look at you, and he almost had to giggle at how fast your thoughts were going.

"shitshitshitshitGODIsoundlikeshittonightohmygodismymiconwhattheFU-"

He was impressed, you were aware of how tired your voice was, how this little theater was doing nothing but ruining your chances at performing for the finer people, yet you were still having fun. How curious... So, like any respectful patron...he found himself knocking on the door to the dressing room...and offering you voice lessons...

Normally whenever he got this far, he would embarrass the musical offender by showing just how much more sophisticated in the arts he was than them and then using them as a blood bag, sparing the world of their miserable vocal range. He found himself amused as this little human stood in front of him, wiping their makeup off, hair pulled back, a tee shirt and sweatpants already thrown on, as they questioned his motives with offense.

"Look man, I know I didn't really sound good tonight, but that doesn't give you any right to come in here and-" Lestat cut you off by explaining exactly what was wrong with your voice and exactly how he planned to fix it.

As the piano sang under his fingers, your voice, now less tired and looser with the help of some honey, wafted from your chords. Everytime he would stop and say you were wrong, you took the note, thanking him. It seemed whoever had been working with you on the music for this show had done a miserable job... You actually sounded much better with the tips you were being given... this wasn't the affect that he wanted. He debated just killing you right then and there, but then you said something and he almost stopped playing.

"I really appreciate you taking time out of your night to help me out, I didn't even know what I was doing wrong. You really helped me out. You play beautifully... You think you can help me out with this song?" Perhaps it was amusement or maybe pity for this kid, but Lestat became their vocal coach, and favorable patron.

Months went by and Lestat watched his pet project grow through the shows in this little muggy theater. Almost every lead roll you could've possibly wanted had become yours, flowers so many you were almost out of vases, and other patrons begging you to come to their theater, it was all a dream come true! Throughout all of this, you stayed faithful to Lestat, seeking him out for help, constantly looking to repay this 'debt' that you felt you owed him, which he thought was adorable. You gave him free tickets to the shows and the satisfaction of how well you were doing on stage, how marvelous you were to watch, and the thrill of watching mortals question your relationship to the man, often reffering to him as your 'rich uncle' and some even questioning if he was your father and you a nepotism child. He had grown fond of you, thinking this endearing, he couldn't help but wonder what you would be like when he finally sunk his teeth into you, wrapped his claws around you, and showed you just how much more potential you had.

It was so warm out tonight, his little human was so miserable it was amusing, they were basically using Lestat as their personal cooler, leaning up against his side as they finished going over lines for the next distracting show they were going to audition for. Lestat had been growing impatient, he often found himself growing lonely when the little nuisance had to go home, how lonesome his big old house had become, and tonight was no exception to this.

"Lestat, are you listening to me?" They sat up against him, tilting their head, awaiting response.

"You could have far better, mon colombe," He felt annoyance rise in his throat when they scoffed, almost a laugh.

"I could have better? Yeah right, look at me 'stat, you ain't getting much better out of this."

"I could give you better, everything you've ever wanted, and you doubt me." Their frown fell as his tone was practically laced with seriousness, they sat up completely, looking at him.

"Lestat, you know I appreciate everything that you do and have already done for me, you don't have to do anymore, you already do to much," It was his turn to scoff,

"Too much? You could have so much more and you say this is too much? Are you dense or just stupidly naive?" They just shook their head, they had long ago become used to Lestat's petty insults. He looked at the human when he felt their warm hands lay over his cold ones, and that's when he realized what he truly wanted. "I'm a vampire."

"What."

It took half an hour to calm his human down, to explain everything to them, to get them to believe. They were sitting in front of him on the table, curled into themselves like a frightened child, but they made no move to escape, nodding, a bit pale. Lestat stood up a bit so that he was eye level with them, moving his hand up to cup their cheek gently.

"Please understand, mon cher, I am not going to hurt you. I want to see you thrive under my guidance,"

"You want to make me into a vampire too." He smiled at how blunt his little human was, how adorable they were.

"I am giving you a choice, mon cher, you can leave now and never come back and pray I never see you on your own again, or you can stay here with me and have everything you could possibly want and more, including bigger and better stages."

They looked down at their lap, hesitating, which worried Lestat just a bit, but one look into their head made him beyond satisfied. "My pet, if you just want to stay here with me for me, that's fine too." All it took was for his human to nod, and their fate was sealed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lestat was enthralled as he looked at the creation, his creation, gathering their bearings in front of him. The turning had been strenuous for his little fledgling, but it proved efficient and was finally over, their human body had just died, and his blood now flowed through their shaky body. They perked up at the sound of Lestat's laughs, brows furrowed in a morbid concentration. It sounded like music to them, a gorgeous sound they could listen to forever.

"Mon bébé, look at you," He cooed, stepping towards them. Their hair was all messy, their own internal inneards on their face, hands, and shirt. Their face was smeared with blood and their eyes a new striking color, he kneeled down in front of them, a smile of pure admiration on his face. "such a messy eater, non?" He teased, licking his thumb and pressing it against his fledglings cheek, wiping some of the blood off. His fledgling turned their head, he clicked his tongue. "Now now, no need to fuss, little one. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

He scooped up his little fledgling, melting as they held onto him, nuzzling into his neck. Lestat helped his new fledgling change into a soft pair of clothes he had, already planning what their new wardrobe would become, and started to wipe his face and hands off with a wet cloth.

"My little one, look at you...you're so cute, so precious..." His little fledgling looked up at him with this new-found innocence in their eyes, like Lestat held the world, pressing themselves against their maker's every touch. Lestat could've died, he knew he would be wrapped around this little one's finger now. "Mon bébé, always so good for me, non? My sweet little fledgling, if I'd have known you'd be so precious I would have turned you ages ago..." He pressed a gentle kiss to his fledglings forehead, he began to brush out their hair.

You sigh. Everything that happened in Dubai left you so drained, you didn't have the energy to convince Louis to continue living without Lestat. And even if you had been up for the argument, Armand's 77 years of lying and literal brain washing made Lestat look like a damn prince.

Ugh--another consequence that you can blame on Armand. Every time you think of another one, it adds to sharp ache that jabs at your ribs every time his name finds you in passing. It's a pain so specific you're not sure you've ever felt anything like it before, but you have spent the last few days trying to convince yourself to officially label the feeling as hatred.

Whatever. Even if you can't convince yourself that the sensation is hatred, you know that the feeling is being fueled by anger...and you know you're a lot angrier now than before you fell asleep.

Louis leaving while you slept. This would have never happened in Dubai.

The thought swells uneasily in your chest. In a desperate attempt at dismissing the feeling, you force yourself to sit up fully. You cross your legs beneath you, doing your best to ward off internal bitterness. Louis will be back eventually, and you need to be aware of your thoughts.

There is one thing that has helped you be a little more neutral...

Sighing, you glance at the hotel room's door before bringing a hand to your neck. It takes you a moment to find the thin chain, and another to find the cylinder pendent. You squeeze the vial between your fingers, letting the small engravings carved into the metal indent themselves into your skin.

Armand had once cared enough to give it you. For Louis's sake or his own, it doesn't matter. He had been willing to bleed for you.

The even sound of three steady knocks pulls you out of your thoughts. You tuck the vial beneath your shirt before pushing yourself to stand.

Weird. Louis wouldn't need to knock first...unless he's trying to give you space, or maybe he was in such a hurry to go on his late night tryst, he forgot his room key.

Instead of opening the room's door right away, you look through the peephole. It's late enough for a knock on the door to be suspicious.

What? You pull away from the door immediately, mentally cursing Louis for whatever he thinks he's doing by sending Lestat here.

You let yourself dwell on your irritation for another second before pulling open the door.

Lestat is standing significantly closer to the doorway than you expected him to be. The proximity is enough to briefly throw you. In a desperate attempt at recovering, you force yourself to focus on him. His blonde hair is styled in loose waves and he's wearing a dark, oversized button down shirt.

Some overly petty part of your subconscious is irrationally annoyed by the fact that he looks more put together than you. The more inebriated version of yourself could have picked out nicer pajamas or at the very least let Louis wipe off your smudged make up with a hotel wash cloth.

"Uh..." You start, your voice distorted by the dryness of your throat, "I don't have any small talk for this situation, so I'm just going to directly ask what you're doing here."

The corner of his mouth tugs itself upwards at your reaction. Something tells you that he's enjoying your uncertainty. "I didn't think you were capable of being so unsure of yourself."

The smugness pressed into his voice feels like a challenge. "This isn't me," you defend, "This is the unspecified number of shots I had a few hours ago." As if aggravated by the reminder, the ache behind your forehead worsens with no warning. You squeeze your eyes shut until the sensation passes. "My head is pounding. Louis isn't here."

Even though you've been doing all you can to seem mature enough to handle the ever changing circumstances of Louis's life, you begin to push the door to the hotel room shut. While this is an incredibly uncordial response to Lestat's sudden appearance, you're sure Louis will accept your hangover as an excuse.

Lestat presses his hand against the door before the hinges even get a chance to creek. "I know," he says, a self-satisfied smile playing at his lips, "He was with me." He presents the answer like some grand divulgence. You're ready to tell him about your note, but Lestat continues before you can speak, "Does that bother you?"

The question digs into you with an unnerving sharpness. Yes, it's an objective fact that you don't love how much time Louis is spending with Lestat of all people, but you're working through it, and the last thing you're going to do is let Lestat get to you.

Instead of answering, you sigh. "Why are you here?"

"Louis is on his way," he answers, "He needed to pick up a few things for your current condition."

Oh. You almost convinced yourself that Louis was abandoning you, when in reality he was getting you things for your hangover. Still though, that doesn't explain Lestat's presence. "Why aren't you with him now?"

"Louis insisted," the response is flat, "He said you'd be upset if you woke up alone."

Something uneasy wedges itself in your chest. Lestat being aware of such a personal vulnerability leaves a sharp warmth crawling up your neck. "I was fine." The weakness of your defense only adds to your chagrin. You push past your discomfort as quickly as you can manage, "You can come in, if you want."

Before anything else can be said, you take a step back, holding the door open despite the instincts begging you to do the opposite.

Lestat enters the space without reservation, letting the door fall shut behind him. He begins to examine the room with an unnerving openness. You find yourself incredibly grateful for the fact that your pre-going-out mess of makeup and hair products are hidden in the bathroom.

He continues forward, his steps even and unbothered until his eyes land on the hotel room's bed. Hm. Maybe you should have straightened out the sheets on your side of the bed before answering the door.

"A single bed." Not a question, but a bitter self confirmation.

His annoyance is so transparent you have to press your lips together to keep from openly grinning. "Yeah," you respond, voice sickeningly innocent as you parrot his earlier question, "Does that bother you?"

He snaps his head towards you, his expression so distinctly irritated you can't help but feel like you're winning some unspoken competition.

Still though, probably not the best idea to anger him before Louis gets here. "Relax," you mumble, "It was a joke."

"I bet," he scoffs, "I bet it's a joke every evening when the two of you end up beneath the same bedsheets."

You blink, completely unsure of how to react. Lestat can't possibly be jealous of you. "I know you're aware enough of Louis's preferences to know that things aren't like that at all."

"Please," he sighs, tone exasperated in its sharpness, "With features like yours I can't be sure of anything."

And you used to think Armand was a lot. "You can be sure of that."

His eyes briefly narrow as he regards you. "Really?"

"Really." You cross your arms in front of your chest as a way of steadying yourself. "Regardless of your relationship with Louis, ours remains the same."

Lestat takes a step in your direction. You have to dig your fingers into your forearms to keep from looking away. "You sound so sure of yourself."

If there's one thing you really don't want to give him, it's the satisfaction of making you feel insecure in your relationship with Louis. "Well, I think you know better than anyone that Louis has a hard time letting people go."

"Is that what you think?" He takes another step towards you. "That I'm nothing more than Louis's bad habit?"

Great...you've once again stumbled onto a lecture about the intensity of the bond that exists between maker and fledgling. You're not uninterested in the details of vampirism you've managed to learn about, but something about hearing about the supernatural force that justifies Louis's returning to Lestat no matter what is mentally exhausting. "I know about the maker-fledgling bond."

Lestat continues to walk forward, only stopping once he's directly in front of you. It takes more mental effort than it should to stand your ground. "And do you think that's all there is to us?"

You're not sure what you're supposed to do with the question. If you're being honest with yourself, their relationship does seem much more complex than some magical force bonding them together, but with all the stories you've heard about Lestat, you think you'd rather see it that way.

"What I think doesn't matter." The response is a bit of a cop-out, but it's the only answer you can trust yourself to express.

For a moment, Lestat just stares at you. Then, in a voice that's as quiet as it is irritated, he says, "It matters to Louis."

Something else you have no idea how to react to. With how possessive Lestat is of Louis, and with how open Lestat has been about not wanting you around...the admission feels uncharacteristically vulnerable. Maybe it's some kind of trick to lure you into a false sense of security.

Before you can answer, Lestat extends an arm, his palm just barely resting against your check and his thumb wiping at the skin under your left eye.

The suddenness of the gesture leaves you so stiff you can't immediately react. Once common sense returns to you, you take a step back. "What--"

"Mascara," he holds out his hand, letting you see the dark smudge now staining the side of his thumb, "under your eye."

Right. Not suspicious at all. "Uh--tha--" You're cut off by the automated sound of a hotel room door's lock moving out of place.

You beam, practically running up to the door as it's pushed open. "Louis."

He lets you pull him into a hug. Louis places a hand against your back, the two plastic bags he's holding crinkling with the motion. "You're awake."

"Mhm," you agree, pulling away from him, "But it hasn't been too long."

"Really? So you weren't mad when you woke up and saw I wasn't here?"

Maybe you do need some time apart from Louis. He's starting to know you to an extent that's unnerving. "I'm a lot more understanding than that."

Louis gives you a look that's a little too aware. "I've noticed." He walks further into the room, glancing at Lestat. "Was he good company?"

You pause in mock contemplation before answering, "He was something."

Lestat throws a halfhearted glare in your direction, "I did nothing to your pet."

"Pet?"

Louis places a hand against your shoulder. You're not sure if the gesture is meant to reassure you or keep you from trying to hit Lestat. "Ignore him, ma chére." When you don't ease, Louis's hold on you tightens. "Lestat, we've discussed this. If you can't let her be, then I have nothing to say to you."

Louis's defense feels definite, but it isn't enough to make you feel better. "It's okay," you say, your voice bordering on mockingly polite, "I know he's sensitive."

Lestat's jaw clenches. "My patience is wearing thin."

You sigh at the empty threat. Louis is taking their reunion slowly. He has no ground to stand on if he kills you. "Kill me and then what? Louis stops talking to you for another 77 years?"

"Stop," Louis interrupts the petty bickering before it can turn into something else. He pulls on your shoulder, making you step back slightly so that you're closer to him. You have a feeling the gesture is more of a reminder to Lestat than anything else.

"Be nice." Louis smooths his thumb against your shoulder in an attempt at making the lighthearted scolding seem even softer.

"That was nice," you say, "I didn't say anything about his hair or wannabe grunge outfit."

Lestat gives you a dirty look before beginning to speak aggressively in French. You've picked up a few phrases from Louis and Armand, but not enough to make out any of the words that Lestat is rushing through.

Louis sighs. "Lestat, she defends herself. If you don't want to deal with it, leave her alone." The response feels like a victory. You press your lips together to keep from seeming too smug. Louis squeezes your shoulder once before returning his attention to you. "Why don't you eat something? I brought you your favorite hangover food and some ibuprofen."

You smile, taking the shopping bags from Louis. You sit down on the room's small sofa before setting the bags down on the coffee table directly in front of the couch. Inside of the first bag, there's a wrapped sandwich and french fries inside.

"Grilled cheese and fries," you say, "You so get me."

"I know." Louis is so content to be able to agree with you it immediately makes Lestat rolls his eyes.

----

first post divorce fic omg, also bestie's face card being so lethal every vampire that isn't louis immediately feels threatened by it <3

Lestat had spent decades on this planet. He had known thousands of people, been to hundreds of cities, lain with both women and men. He had fallen in love, once upon a time. And he had known loneliness. He knew it even before he was turned into this vile creature. When he had to spend his days in his cold bed as a little human child. As his father and brothers torture toy, his mother’s suffocating burden, when had to spend days in Satan’s dungeon with the dead and the undead, waiting for his final day see his god for the first and last time. The nights he prayed to God to spare his life and how his prayers turned to pleadings for his death. He begged it to be quick and painless. He wanted his mother’s comfort that he never knew. He wanted to go back to church and attend the sunday service with the people of his small town. He wanted to hold cross one more time and feel the love of Christ in his bones.

He thought about God and Jesus and his mother when Magnus nearly ripped his neck open with his sharp fangs one night. He drank so much that Lestat thought he saw a bright light in the corner of his eye. He felt his soul slip away from his body and the lightness wash over him. It was a comfort that he never felt in his entire life before. Not when he used to lay beside that tree on the hill and exchange glances with the pretty looking shepherd boy as the warm breeze danced with his own blonde curls. Not when he fell asleep with that beautiful daughter of the baker by the river, naked, arms wrapped around one another, his head on her chest, listening to her heart beats.

He had tasted blood for the first time when Magnus pressed his bleeding wrist to his lips. Lestat started to drink. He had no idea why he was drinking. It was an instinctual command coming from his body, from his very existence. He felt life come back to him. But not his soul, it was gone. He felt his flesh harden like rocks and the colour drain away from his rosey cheeks of humanity. He felt Magnus’s blood flow trough his veins, fast and burning. He felt the warmth in his chest. His fingertips hurt with the sharp nails that grew in seconds. His eyes were sore and when he opened them again, the bright colours made him dizzy. He could hear everything and everyone. He could feel everything at once. He wanted to die. He wanted to beg Magnus to stop playing with him and let him die peacefully. And he was alone one more time when Magnus died in the flames, in front of his eyes. He smelled his burning rotten flesh. Dying like him disgusted Lestat.

Over time his yearning for God’s love turned into grudge. He wondered why God let him turn into this blood thirsty monster. Yes, that was what he was. A monster trough and trough. And no one would dare to love a monster like him. Even tho the monster would love anyone in the purest way possible if he was given chance.

And he did. Lestat loved Nicolas. As much as he could at least. Nicki was a troubled man since the first moment Lestat laid his eyes on him. He thought that being with him and having countless adventures could change him and plant seeds of happiness into soul. But it didn’t. He hesitated turning him into a vampire when Nicki was begging him to do so. He could sense the consequences of doing it. But spending centuries with the man he loved convinced Lestat. Nicki sinked into his dark thoughts more. His violin played with sadness and sorrow more than ever. Lestat felt his darkness in himself. He could not hear but see Nicki’s feelings in is empty looking eyes. He felt the guilt filling his heart as his first love was turning into someone he didn’t know. Armand’s presence wasn’t helping at all.

Lestat never thought about being loyal to his spouses when the world was full of fruits in different shapes and colours and tastes. There was so much to explore in his infinite life time. Armand was a capturing thing. With his eyes looking into his soul and reading him like an open book. Armand was offering so many things to Lestat that no one ever could. He yearned for the care and affection from Armand. He wanted to drink from him, lay with him and taught by him how to survive, live with the nature of a vampire. But being with Armand in front of the eyes of Nicki pushed the poor boy into madness more and more every passing day. Lestat was hungry but not for the destruction of the ones he loved.

He left Paris with his mother. He had left Nicki and Armand and the theatre. Only to receive the news of Nicki’s death. He fell onto his knees when they sent his violin to him. He touched the places where Nicki’s fingertips traced over. And he played it for the last time to feel his lover again. It didn’t matter if he was feeling Nicki’s love, rage or sadness. He only wanted a piece of him. His lips trembled when he played his favourite melody. The melody Nicki would play for Lestat after the moments they spent in each others arms, tasted one another and explore the corners of pleasure. He remembered that fearless little boy that he met with back in the day, when they were both humans. He remembered the shy glances of Nicki when he was looking at Lestat’s eyes, lips and every detail on his face. He remembered the moments they danced together and his mother would sing for them. He remembered their last happy moments. Tears of blood flowed down his cheeks and stained his white shirt.

He was alone again when his mother left him. He felt unlovable. Even his own mother couldn’t stand his presence. How could anyone in this world would love a man like him? By that time he had forgotten how it felt like being close to god and feel his love. He knew that God left him when he was turned into a seed of devil. He wanted to scream and shout and tell God that he never had a chance to choose. If he could he would choose God over everyone and everything without a second thought. Therefore Lestat knew believing in something higher and more powerful than you was a great comfort and happiness a man could ever have.

He traveled for years after his mother left him. He wondered around the countries, saw humans kill one another, cheat on one another, trick one another and destroy one another. He saw that it was not only him that was hungry for something he couldn’t name. Then his bright greyish blue eyes found the figure of a little human being in the crowd, dancing with a beautiful smile on her face. His eyes watched you for the whole dance. He heard your fast breaths, how they go trough your delicate nose and reach to your lungs that were still fresh and youthful compared to his rotten body. He saw the drops of sweat sliding trough your temple, your hair damp and the braid crown that was about to fall off. He heard your laugh, full of life and joy. He saw your skirts fly off as you tap your feet on the floor with your human strength. Your dance made him smile. His smile widened as you kept dancing and laughing. He felt like he never saw something or someone more alive. He felt a warmth in his chest. So different from the one felt when he first drank Magnus’s blood. It was type of warmth he felt when he was still human, when he had fears of a human and desires of a human.

He took you into his arms as you were still dancing. The dance floor was crowded as you felt his hands on you. You turned around and saw the most beautiful pair of eyes that you ever saw in your entire life. It felt natural to be in his arms, to be close to him and smiling at him. Lestat looked into your eyes as both of you danced trough the song. You didn’t want this song to ever finish. His body was pressed against yours and it felt like you were the only ones in the dance floor, in the world. He felt your gentle hands on his arms, going to his shoulders. It felt tingly and he realised how much he missed this human feeling. He laughed when you accidentally stepped on his feet and his laugh sounded more beautiful than thousand melodies that you ever heard. Which musician could ever write a song that sounded like his joy? Who could ever be the inspiration and make any musician to write it?

You watched his blonde long curls shine under the colourful lights. The thought of running your fingers trough his curls sent shivers down your spine. Lestat shook slightly when he heard your thoughts. You didn’t think about laying with him right away or take advantage of things that he might offer you. You only wanted to caress his hair. Something his mother never did. He closed his eyes and leaned down to your neck. The flavour of your blood filled his nostrils in seconds. He felt dizzy and wrapped his arms tighter around you. You felt his lips ghost over your skin and you had to hold onto him.

“Wait for me, ma cherie.” He whispered and you opened your eyes. Your arms were on the air, hugging no one. You felt coldness wash over your burning cheeks.

“Wait for me.” You heard his voice again. You turned around but he was no where to be seen. Your hands held your long skirts and put the strands of hair behind your ear. People around you kept dancing as you walked out of the dance floor with shaky legs.

Lestat watched you for the rest of the night from far afar. You didn’t dance again or laugh. You sat down, sipped on your drink, answered question when they were referring to you and looked for him with curious eyes. He felt sense of pride in his heart. Not because a mortal girl was mesmerised by him but because it was you that was mesmerised by him. You were not his prey of the night. He could fill that place with someone anytime, anyone could be his meal tonight. No, you were meant to be alive, and you were meant to be by his side.

For eight long weeks he watched your every step. He watched you wake up every morning, have breakfast with your family, attend your daily lessons, sew with your lady friends, read your books by your window and think about him. He could hear your sweet dreams about him, even when he was in his house. You were waking up everyday, hoping to see him somehow. You thought about telling your mother many times. Maybe she would’ve known about that otherworldly lord that attended the party in the gambling club. He watched you blush like a cherry in summer when one of your mother’s friends pointed out that you were zoning out and getting lost in your thoughts pretty often, just like a young lady in love would do. Your mother laughed it off as you kept your eyes on the floor and your thoughts on Lestat.

He watched you go home that day. Slip away from the heavy layers of your dress, undo your beautifully braided hair and lay on your back on the bed. Your room was lightened by the few candles on your desk and nighstand. He could hear your heart beating fast as you pictured his eyes again and again. Oh how beautiful he was. As if carved by God himself carefully within the image of an angel. You could feel that weird, tingly sensation in your stomach when you remembered his lips on your skin. Lestat smiled softly as you drifted into sleep thinking about him. And he was in your room. He walked to your desk first and looked over the poetry books you were reading, and the some poems you tried to write. A little poet i have hear, Lestat thought.

He walked to your bed. His hands traced over your neck to your chest and lastly to your stomach. His touch was so soft and light, he could feel you hardly. But he could feel your warmth so clearly. He could feel it even with just being in your room. He tried to remember the last time he felt the warmth of humanity in him. Nearly two centuries. He sat on your bed and looked at your sleeping figure. You looked so peaceful. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to sleep for night without all those memories haunting him? He listened to your heart beats for a moment and the way your eyes were moving slightly during your sleep. He leaned over you, to your neck. He inhaled deeply as his lips were close to your skin. For a moment he feared that his cold lips would wake you up but you didn’t open your yes. Your blood made his mouth watery. He was so hungry. For blood yes, but he was hungry for something more. Something that could make him feel alive after two centuries of being dead. Something that would make his heart beat faster with excitement again.

He wondered if God was looking down at two of you in that moment. If he was, would he let Lestat to defile one more of his human children? If yes, why? Wasn’t it both torture for Lestat and them? He had the blood of thousands on his hands. And there was no soap or water in this world that could wash it away from him. He was carrying all his victims within himself. They were in his veins, staining his fangs.

He laid his body on top of yours slowly, gently. His broad shoulders blocked your eyes and his legs trapped you between them. Your eyes opened wide with the pressure on your stomach. First you could only see darkness, then you felt a cold hand against your cheek.

“Don’t be afraid, mon cœur.” He whispered. Your fast breathing calmed in seconds. He looked down at your face and your gaze met with his own. You looked divine under the moonlight, under him. The way your eyes were still half open, in the grasp of sleep. And the way your cheeks were flushed with shyness and excitement. But not fear. His eyes found your lips lastly. Your lips that were slightly open, sucking in little breaths, looking all soft and warm. Lestat felt your hardened tetes peaking trough your nightgown, pressed against his tough chest.

You saw his bright blue eyes go darker with lust and his teeth grow into sharp fangs that only a wild animal would have. You felt his sharp nails digging into your skin and make you bleed. You both hissed as his fingertips got covered with your blood. He snarled just like an animal as the smell of fresh blood surrounded his very being. Your body trembled and you held onto his arms tightly

“Are you going to kill me?” You whispered. You did not feel horror, or rage or sorrow. You were only exited as he held you in his arms. Lestat smiled softly at your question. He pressed his nose against your cheek and inhaled your scent one more time. Your humanly, sweet smell made him dizzy. He felt an unfamiliar sensation down below his stomach.

“No, I will give you life. Better than the one you have.” He said and bite down your neck. First thing you felt was a sharp pain that made your neck go numb. You could not move, rather dare to move. It felt like if you moved, the pain would get worse. Lestat let his body go and laid on top of you fully, giving his whole weight. You opened your legs and welcomed his slender figure. And for the first time in decades, Lestat felt like he was home.

The wound that his fangs made on your neck started to burn when he licked and played with it with his tongue. The tears filled your eyes as Lestat laid his head on your neck. He kept drinking from you, slowly, taking little sips with the tip of his tongue, still breathing in your scent. His arms were wrapped around you and you could feel him all over you. He felt himself harden against your hips. He had to do it. He had to put an end to his loneliness.

He slashed his wrist with his nails, deep enough for him to bleed. Then he pressed his wrist against your lips. Your slowly closing eyes opened up at once as the strange taste of blood hit your tongue. Lestat shifted his position to open up the breaches of his trousers. He watched you drink him up hungrily as he lifted your skirt up to your waits. You felt his cold fingertips tracing over your bare stomach and thighs. His blood tasted sweet. Sweeter than the liquors you tasted in the balls, sweeter than the sherbets in the centre of the candies you ate, sweeter than the tropical fruits that your father bought very rarely.

You felt your whole body burn in need, in lust. You felt the buzzing sensation in your brain and your ears ringed. You pushed his hand away and pressed your lips against his own. You had to have him. It was a primal instinct that made you think so. Lestat held your back and positioned himself against your leaking entrance. Your warm walls welcomed him. You were sweet, warm and wet. In that moment it felt like it was all he ever needed. You tasted each other’s blood on your lips as his tongue explored your mouth. The he pushed you back and pressed his wrist back onto your lips. He wanted you to drink, cure your thirst and hunger with him.

He thrusted into you hard and deep as you kept drinking and drinking. He had to tend to you, he had to care for his fledgling. You were his. From head to toe, you belonged to him. Magnus had never claimed him as his own. His mother had no maternal instinct for him. He belonged to no one in this entire world. Nicki was in his own little world despite the love Lestat gave him. And Armand would never belong to anyone. Oh but you, you were perfect for him. Your walls tightened and it drove him over the edge. He ripped his arm away from you and held your face. You whined in need for his blood. His length went deeper and deeper into you as your shaky breaths hit his face.

He heard your heart sync with his own as he looked into your eyes. Your face was covered in blood as you moaned in pleasure. Lestat wanted to get lost in you. He wanted to be buried in you. He spent himself in you with one last thrust and felt your walls tighten more than before as you choked on your breaths and held him tight against you. He looked down at you and saw your thighs and his pubes sticky with blood. I had claimed her in every way possible, he thought.

He let you lay back down as he laid himself on top of you. You tried to catch your breath and he laid his head on your chest, between your breasts. Lestat kissed your skin, his lips left marks of blood on you. Then he felt your hands in his hair. Your fingers played with his lose curls that was ruined when he lost himself in pleasure. He felt your fingertips caressing his forehead and temple, gently, softly. You were still gentle with him even after what he did to you. His shoulders relaxed under your touch and he let out a shaky breath. What was he going to do now? He should’ve ask you before turning you and prisoning you into darkness. How he was different from Magnus when he just grabbed you like a piece of meet and drank your essence of life just to replace it with his rotten, blood of death?

“My family will think I coupled with the devil.” You whispered as you kept caressing his hair. Lestat’s breath hitched in his troath. He looked up to you under his lashes. He looked like a scared little boy in this light. A little boy that feared the monsters under his bed, scared of his father’s rage, scared of life and death. The tears of blood filled his eyes as he looked into your eyes. He saw the bright colour of your irises that matched your new nature. He nodded as he agreed with your statement.

“You have.” He said quietly as he avoided your eyes. He heard your small chuckle, felt his arm move as your chest rised up. You were still so calm. Maybe you were in shock after what he did to you. Poor girl, Lestat thought. I have driven one more innocent into madness.

“How come devil is so pretty then?” You asked as your fingertips trailed around his eyebrows. He stopped frowning with your touch. Then your touch continued to his eyes. Then to his nose. You caressed his straight bone. Finally your fingertips reached to his lips. Your hand brought grace to his well shaped lips. He planted a small kiss to your fingers.

“I never knew devil would look so perfect.” You whispered. As if even you couldn’t believe what you were saying. But Lestat heard you. He heard you so well that he received your compliment as a sharp pain into his heart. Growing up he had always heard that he was a pretty boy. Many of his lovers had said so even after his humanity was ravaged. But he couldn’t see anything but a monster when he looked at himself in the mirror. He had a attraction for violence. He couldn’t feel fulfilled if he didn’t kill. And he couldn’t satisfy himself if he didn’t hurt.

“You don’t know what I am. How can you say I am perfect after what I’ve done to you?” He asked his his tears started to spill from his eyes. You caught them before they could flow down his cheeks. Your small, soft smile remained on your lips. Lestat thought that he never seen someone so beautiful. He was surrounded by your smell, your beauty and compassion. He was covered in your blood and you were carrying his blood. He felt himself warm next to you. Centuries of coldness in his chest was replaced with your smile. He could feel your body calling for him, desperate for his touch and taste. There was a soreness in his troath. He wanted to scream it out.

“You have bewitched me.” You said, almost like a confession. His sharp gaze found your eyes immediately. Lestat’s tears kept spilling from his eyes as he laid his head on your chest again. He stayed in your arms who knows for how long. How could he let you go know? When you were calling him perfect, even after seeing his blood thirsty animalistic side, touching him with love and passion, carrying a piece of him in you, opening your arms for him without a question and accepting him as he is?

The next time Lestat knew loneliness was the hardest time.

You were a great companion, lover and a wife for him after the night he had you in your room, in your bed of youth and innocence. You were a brave little thing that was ready to face an army for him. He felt like the luckiest man alive when your laughs echoed trough the walls of your home. After decades he was finally living, sleeping in a house that he called home. He tried to taught you french but you were impatient and often ran away from his grasp to play his favourite melodies on the piano. He couldn’t get mad at you and watched you for hours as you played, looking at him for the whole time with a big grin on your face. He bought you the finest dresses in your favourite colours, had beautiful jewellery made for you. He loved making you happy more than everything in the whole world.

You were getting into an excited hurry every time you two decide to host a party in your home. People of your city were adoring both of you as a couple. You were so cheerful that there was no room people didn’t smile and the place didn’t lighten up as you entered. Men and women considered themselves lucky if you danced with them. But Lestat knew your first and last dance always belonged to him. Your heart and soul belonged to him. He didn’t know how many nights he pressed his forehead against yours, smiled like a teenage boy in the bliss of love and lifted you into air as your skirts flied behind you and your laughs filled ears of fortunate mortals. His heart was syncing with someone that loved him deeply. And he was so full of love, that he couldn’t remember the times he had lost himself in darkness.

He would have children with you if he could. If he was still a human. He would love to raise a boy that looked like you and a girl that looked like him. He had imagined the picture many nights as he closed his eyes in his coffin, his arms wrapped tight around you. He could see them running around the house, laughing beautifully like you. He could see them growing up and having their own lives as he grew old with you. I was so close to have a life, he thought after every single time he dreamt. The thought brought him sorrow. But he had you. It was more than enough for him.

Lestat met with your family when you two decided to get married. Your parents loved him. They called him a great gentleman with knowledge and culture. A husband fit for my daughter’s hand, your father said. But as the years went by and you still didnt have children or added wrinkle over there and there, your family sank nto silence. The letters became lesser and lesser. By the last letter, it was a dry piece of paper with few words written on it. No feelings, no longing or great love of your mother. You two attended the funeral of your father as he passed away after 15 years of your marriage to Lestat. Your mother’s eyes filled with tears and hatred as you watched your father getting buried. Lestat held you as you fought so hard to keep your tears back from spilling. You could see everyone’s eyes on you, examining you with fear planted in their heart, convinced that you are no longer the girl they knew. You tried to approach your mother and got blocked by cousins and other relatives.

“Tell that devil to leave my poor girl's body and find someone else to be the servant of satan.” You mother’s harsh voice made you step back. And Lestat could hear your heart shatter into pieces. He knew her words were referring to him. How many times I will hear the same thing, phrased differently? He thought. After the funeral you refused to leave your bed chambers for days. You didn’t eat even if Lestat hunted for you. You refused to sleep either. As the sun rose from the east and Lestat closed his coffin, he could hear your muffled cries in your own coffin. You couldn’t get yourself to sleep with him. You couldn’t get yourself to face to world. Your mind kept drifting back to the times you were with your family and how much they loved you. Lestat never wished something as much he wished to hear your thoughts and take your pain away. If he could, he would take all it of to himself. He was used to be in pain since he knew himself. But seeing his sunshine fade away was like tying his hands and feet and abandon him to starve to death.

After days, you left your coffin for the first time. Lestat’s bright eyes scanned your body head to toe. All he could see was a hungry vampire that was broken. Your under eyes were purple and your skin was paler than usual. The veins under your skin was showing trough. You could barely walk and talk as he held you in his arms and carried to the living room. Your hands fell to your thighs and he fell to his knees in front of you. His eyes were filled with concern and fear.

“Ma cherie, you need to eat something.” He said as he tried to make eye contact with you desperately. But your eyes were avoiding him by all cost. Your lips parted and some whispers left your mouth. Lestat leaned closer to hear you.

“It’s you.” He heard you say. He frowned and his mouth opened but nothing came out.

“I don’t understand.” He said quietly after a moment. You looked like a mess in front of him. And he wanted nothing more than pulling you back into his arms and never let you go.

“You never did.” You said as you finally made eye contact with him. “You are the reason of my current state.”

Lestat felt your words form into a dagger and stab him on his heart. His stomach dropped and he fought the urge to get away from you. He wanted to step away and take one more step away and one more… Your eyes were looking at him differently. There was a feeling he never felt from you before. Hate.

“You made me what I am and you ruined me.” Your voice sharp and your eyes full of bitterness. You collected all your strength to get up but it was not enough to keep you standing. Lestat held you gently before you could fall. Then he felt your sharp nails scratch him and rip his hands away from you.

“Don’t ever touch me.” You hissed and crawled away on the big sofa. Lestat’s eyes could not leave the empty space that you used to sit. He could hear your heart beating fast and he could almost taste the poison in your words you spoke out and you were going to speak out.

“You put me in a prison that I will never be able to leave. No matter what I do.” You said. Lestat looked over you and saw the tears of blood flow down your cheeks. Your fragile figure broke his heart repeatedly. He came in front of you on his knees and tried to hold your hand but you pulled away again. He sighed and did his best to hold his tears back.

“It will get better. In time everything will feel less weird and more normal. You will embrace what you are.” Your eyebrows lifted and a cold smirk appeared on your lips.

“And what is that? A murderer? A sinner? A cursed woman?” Your voice raised with each word and Lestat moved away. He turned around to avoid your eyes and words. His left hand found the corner of the window to lean down and his right hand covered his mouth. Muffled cries left his lungs as he shut his eyes tight.

“You will carry this feeling for the rest of your life.” You said and your presence left the house in seconds. Lestat did not move from his spot as he felt you going away from him. Your heart beats faded away in the night until he couldn’t hear you anymore. Me and you both, he wanted to say.

8 years.

He didn’t see you for 8 years after that night. He knew you were out of the city, far away from him. He called for you every night for a year at first. He screamed your name in darkness, hoping desperately that maybe you would hear and answer him. But you didn’t. Once his voice became hoarse, he wrote letters to your family. But got nothing back. Was it still possible for them to take you back after everything? Your mother couldn’t look at you and your siblings had nothing but fear and disgust in their eyes when they glanced at your direction. You were truly all alone in the entire world. You had no one but the person who trapped you into loneliness.

Lestat wandered around the city for days, searching for your scent, your gentle figure. You were no where to be found. He stopped going out after some time and trapped himself into his house. His coffin was full of pictures he could find of you. For nights he stared at your smiling face, frozen in those moments of happiness and joy. He missed your smile. He craved for you in every way possible. The house felt like a grave and his good old friend, the coldness was back. The memories of his youth started to haunt him one by one as he laid in his coffin during daytime. He could not find sleep when your side of the coffin was all empty.

He thought about his life before and after Magnus. He wondered if he would have a good life still if he wasn’t turned into a vampire. The thought of not meeting with you sent a gut-wrenching pain to his stomach. You’d be centuries apart, in different lives and countries. The picture of you marrying a decent man that your family found for you, wear a wedding dress for him, have his children, raise kids that looked like you and some man, have fights and love making nights with him, grow old with him and hold his hand while you greeted by the merciful arms of death made him tear up. He felt his heart pound painfully fast in his chest. A sob ripped from his throat and this time he didn’t cover his mouth. The guilt ate him from inside out. The honeymoon was over and now, he had the face the fact that he stole your whole life, your one chance of being alive, only for him to take your love for himself, selfishly and hungrily.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks urned into months, Lestat started to lose his hopes of seeing you again. Once again he was assured that no one could love a man like him. He didn’t want to stay in the house that use to be the home to two of you. Every corner was you and he couldn’t finish a day without thinking of the times you had spent together. But the small chance of you coming back made him stay. If you wanted to come back, you would love to see everything same and your husband waiting for you, Lestat told himself in the moments of doubt.

And one day you opened that door and came back. He was in the music room when he heard your heart beats. He felt like the time had frozen and his heart skipped a beat. His fingers on the piano stopped, his lips twitched with longing and tears formed in his eyes. When he saw you again, standing in front of him, beautiful as always, he wanted to get on his knees in front of you and beg you to forgive him for what he did to you. Then his eyes found the little body of the human boy in your arms. The child was maximum 4 and he was shaking uncontrollable. His blonde hair was dump on his forehead and weak breaths mixed with moans were leaving his mouth. Lestat didn’t need to be doctor to know that the boy was in great pain. And perhaps fear.

“He is going to die.” You said and hearing your voice after years made Lestat break down. He had to turn around at the doorway to hide his tears.

“Help me. Please.” Cracked noise from your sore throat was heard in the room. The boy was clinging to your dress, like a little lamb. You walked towards your husband as you held the little child tighter.

“Please save him. For me?” Lestat didn’t know if he was feeling grateful that you were back, guilty for his mistake or angry because you only showed up when you needed something from him. He looked at the boy. He was cute little thing with blue eyes like ocean and long blonde lashes that framed his doe eyes. He saw his clear tears run down his face as he coughed. An innocent, Lestat thought. An innocent dying in the arms of the woman I love.

“You can turn him. I don’t know how to. But you do. Please Lestat.” He saw your tears dripping down to the boy’s hands on your dress. The pain in your voice twisted his stomach. You sounded helpless and he whished nothing more than take this feeling away from you.

He shook his head no.

“I can’t.” He spoke. The dryness in his voice made more tears fall down your eyes. You held the boy closer to your heart. His head rested on your heart as you caressed his blonde curls. The curls that reminded you so much of Lestat.

“Yes, you can. Do it for me, please!” You were ready to beg if you needed to. There was nothing more you wanted than saving his little life. He had to live. He had to survive this filthy world and show everyone that he was strong. And maybe you would have a chance of being a mother.

“Children cannot be turned.” Lestat said as he reached out to hold you but you took a step back. You were shaking your head endlessly as tears kept flowing down your cheeks.

“Great laws forbid it. Otherwise a vampire child would live in misery.” He remembered Marius’s voice as he spoke these words to him before he sent him away. Someone under 17 cannot be given the dark gift.

“Laws? Are you serious? He will die if you don’t save him!” Your scream echoed through the walls and found his ears and heart. Your anger and sorrow shook him slightly. He knew he was walking on thin ice in this very moment. You could turn around and leave him again. And never come back this time. Who knows maybe you would find another vampire out there that could be your companion? Or turn this little boy for you to only make you happy? The thought hardened his blood and tightened his chest.

“My love, he won’t be saved if I turn him. He will live his life in desperation. For something more. Something he will never have.” He said gently as he wiped his tears away. He had to be strong. For both of you. His eyes found the boy again. He was so thin. Lestat wanted to put an end to his suffering. The boy’s eyes opened slightly and he looked at you. His fingers were shut tight over the fabric of your dress. Lestat could feel your love and care for him. You felt like you had to protect him. The boy’s big eyes found him. He looked at him with softness and hope. His eyes are full of life even when his life slips away from his body, just like hers were once upon a time, Lestat thought.

“We can be a family Lestat. He can be our son.” You said quietly. As if you feared that the world would take him away from you if they heard your words. “He looks just like you.”

Lestat didn’t look away from the boy. Yes, he did look like him. His blonde curls were just over his shoulders and his nose was small like Lestat’s nose when he was little. His mother loves him, unlike mine, he told himself.

“You and I and him. We can be happy together. We can try again.” The desperation in your voice broke his heart. You were willing to go back to him. To where you belong. Lestat wanted you back in the house, in his arms, in his coffin. He wanted you on his lips, on his skin. He wanted your fangs back in his neck and your heart on his. He wanted to be the one made you smile again and he wanted to be your dance partner in your extravagant parties. He wanted the boy to watch two of you as you danced and clap for his parents. He wanted to take him into his arms and feel a father’s strength in his bones. He wanted the pure and unconditional love of a son. The one he used to have for his father, way before he became his father’s unexplainable enemy. He wanted to see the boy become a man and be his pride.

“We are killers. A child has no place among the demons.” His words cut sharp as the boy started to cough again. The blood covered his lips as you tried to calm him down. Your own tears were spilling uncontrollably and sobs were coming between your lips. Lestat heard your irregular heartbeats.

“He cannot die.” You said between your sobs and cries as the boy kept coughing his blood out. You fell to your knees and kept his little head on your heart. His small, fragile hands were holding your hand tight. The fear in his eyes were piercing trough Lestat chest. He knelt beside you, held your back to his chest as you rocked back and forth. Both of you stopped breathing as the boy’s heartbeats started to slow down. His breaths calmed down and he closed his eyes. He clinged to your cold skin and did not let your hand go. With his last breath your head dropped back to Lestat’s shoulder. His arms were wrapped tight around both you and the boy. His long fingers intertwined with your and the boy’s hand. His decreasing temperature was slowly matching the coldness of both vampires.

“My son…” he hard your whisper. Your eyes were focused on the ceiling. Lestat buried his face in your neck when your cries filled the room. If only I could take all your pain away, he wanted to say but words did not leave his mouth. He could take your pain away, if only he made you a mother and gave you another family.

Lestat carried you to the coffin when you were exhausted from crying. He took the boy’s lifeless body and burnt it while you slept. He stayed until he was nothing but ash. He looked at the scene as the flames took him away and listened as his bones cracked and his flesh melted down. He didn’t let himself cry. It was his vilest murder. He had no right to feel guilt or shame.

He laid beside you in the coffin. You were whispering and crying still, even in your sleep. His fingers traced over your hands gently. He looked at your sleeping form and took a deep breath. Your scent filled his lungs once again after many years. His insides blossomed and he felt the life come back to his body. You were his home. It didn’t matter to him which form you were in or how you looked like. It didn’t matter if you were laughing or in sorrow. As long as you were beside him, he was happy to have you in any way. And you were back. Lestat knew he could not let you go again. Not after this night. Not when you needed him the most. He was the only one you had left with and he had no intention of leaving you alone. He was going to make you happy again. Just two of you were enough.

“You came into my life when I needed you the most. Now it is my turn to bring you joy.” He whispered to your ear and wrapped his arm around your waist. Your eyes opened as he closed his own. Your gaze traveled trough his beautiful features. He was beautiful as the first day you saw him. Years ago, in that party, where you were still innocent and human. Now I know that devil can be this pretty, you thought.

Lestat was in the corner of your mind for 8 years. You were carrying him in you wherever you traveled to. His face was carved onto your eyelids and you were too afraid to close your eyes. His voice kept echoing in your head when you killed, drank or spared a life. You played his favourite songs on the piano when you needed him by your side. But no matter how much you missed him, you couldn’t forgive him. You knew Lestat De Lioncourt loved you. You felt it in your bones, in your flesh. You carried his love in your veins. But you knew he cursed you forever. And you weren’t naive like you used to be to forgive and forget what he did to you. You were young and in love. How could you know it meant to lose your everything when you gave yourself to him that night?

You could not deny the fact that you were happy at first. Lestat gave you things no one ever did. He respected you, he loved you gently and made you feel like the only woman in the world. And you loved him. There was something in Lestat that pulled you to him. You were like opposite sides of a magnet. It felt right to touch and kiss him. Your heart craved for his heart just like your body craved for him. When he was deep in you, made you scream his name and planted soft kisses to your face, life was good. Until you started to see question marks on people’s faces. You were in peace with your fate and the things came with your new life. But everything seemed meaningless once it cost you your family. Lestat’s arms failed to comfort you when you were invited to your own father’s funeral at the last minute and saw that no one wanted you there. Not even your own mother.

You were motherless and fatherless. You were a demon who could only see the world under the dark sky. You could only stay alive if you killed humans. And seeing Lestat every single moment of your life vexed you. At the time you needed someone to blame other than yourself. You were already aware of your mistakes. And knowing that Lestat still turned you despite the fact that he knew what kind of a curse he was bringing on you, made his existence unbearable. You had to leave. You had to be alone with yourself after decades of marriage. Still, no matter where you went, Lestat was the only thing your heart ever wanted. You would always love him.

Then you found him. Leonardo. That was his name, you tried to remember. He was the son of a homeless woman that lived on the street of your small home. It was nighttime when you heard his cries. You saw his dead mother and him crying his eyes out over her body. You felt your heart shatter into pieces with the sight in front of you. He was so small and so scared. When his blue eyes found you and you could see his face clearly, you knew that you could not leave him to die. His arms reached out to you when you knelt beside him. He didn’t know why his mother wasn’t waking up and taking him into her arms. He was shaking and coughing between his sobs full of fear.

“Mummy.” He cried as you caressed his blonde curls to calm him down. He was cold and hungry and sick. I want to help you. I need to hold you, you thought as he snuggled to your chest. There was only one person who could help you. But could you go back to him? After everything that happened between you? Could you find that strength in yourself or would he take you back?

“Mummy!” Leonardo screeched in your lap in pain as his coughs got harder. His little hands were trying to hold your arms. You had to do it. Both for yourself and him. So that was now you found yourself in front of the door of your home.

You reached to hold his cheek. His breath quickened with your touch but his eyes kept shut. You were pressed against him. Your lips were nearly touching and you could feel his breaths all over your face. Your fingertips traced over his face to his neck and to his chest. His body shook. The soft touch made you both shiver when your hand slipped under his expensive shirt. It has been years since you last touched one another and you realised how much you missed him. You needed to touch him. When you pressed your lips against his, Lestat’s arms wrapped tighter around you. His kisses and biting continued to your neck and to your chest. The soft lips of your lover were sending you into oblivion. You had to be closer to him. Closer than being skin to skin, something more, something more painful, something full of love and the suffering that comes with it. Something that would destroy that pit in your stomach and be worth of all your sorrow.

“I love you. I live you. I-“ Lestat’s raggedy voice stopped as he kept kissing you hungrily. His words weren’t able to keep up with his desire. Your mind was foggy as he undressed himself first, then you. Tears were flowing down your cheeks and you were feeling his cold fingers spread the wetness between your legs. His fingertip caressed your leaking opening and moans left your mouth. You could barely see because of tears when you held his face and made him look at you. He was crying too. You kissed him. His tears and yours mixed up and found your pressed lips. The taste of blood was exquisite, vibrating, destructive.

The next thing you knew was you were on top of him, the lid of the coffin was wide opened, he was inside you, fully. You rode him to the bottom of the coffin, hard and deep as his impressive size stretched you out immensely. Your eyes rolled back when his hands groped your breasts. He was talking but you couldn’t hear him. Your ears were ringing and the pain was too great. Your moves became faster and harsher. Your sharp nails digged into his chest and scratched him all over.

“You’re crying.” Finally you heard him and opened your eyes again. It was a mess in his coffin. His chest, between your legs, his face, your body, you were both covered in blood. Yet Lestat managed to smile when he saw the unsettled look on your face. He held your waits tight and moved you back on forth gently on him. He kept caressing your body and say sweet nothings as he controlled your movements.

All the memories of your shared life passed before your eyes as you went closer to the edge. Your legs shook when Lestat’s thumb found your pearl and circled it skilfully. There was a soreness in your throat and your climax was building in your lower belly. The image of two of you filled your mind over and over again. The image of you happy. Would you be able to be like that again? You didn’t know. And learning the answer of this question scared you to death.

“I can’t.” You cried out when your orgasm hit you hard. Your body froze as Lestat kept his hands on you and reached to his climax. His dead seed spilled into you. Deep into your dead womb that was never going to be a home to a babe. Was Lestat enough for you to be fulfilled? Were you going to be enough for him when he got bored of searching for things that made him feel human, made him feel young again?

When you made eye contact again, you could see fear and doubt in his eyes. He was scared that you were going to leave him, just like everyone he ever loved. And he was not sure if it was still you in your body. He was looking for you in the eyes he saw for thousands of times and more. Yet nothing about your eyes felt familiar. Your body felt like you, your kisses felt like you, your heart felt like you. But it was almost like a death itself looking down at him in this moment. He left out a deep breath when you leaned down and laid on his chest.

His heartbeats were fast under your cheek. You turned a little and pressed a tender kiss to his chest. And another. And another. You kissed him until new tears stained your face. You hoped that you could find him again one day. You hoped that you were both humans when you meet again. You hoped that you had a life in another world, with the love of your life. You knew Lestat would find you no matter what. He would love you the same if not more. He would be yours in every lifetime until you had no more love to give.

“I’ll love you forever. Now and always. Until my last day and after.” You whispered but your quiet words reached to Lestat’s ears. He smiled sadly, his tears spilled down to his paper white pillow. He tried to speak but his voice shattered.

“And I you.” He could only say without sobbing. He shut his eyes tight when he heard you fall asleep on him. Tomorrow was going to be better. Everything was going to alright. He had you in his arms. And he needed nothing more.

—

When Lestat opened his eyes again, the first thing he felt was pain. His eyes were watering and he couldn’t even press his lips together to cover up his moans. He licked his dry, chapped lips with the last strength before he was breathless again. In the darkness of his coffin, his shiny eyes looked around desperately. He could feel the air hitting his burned body and make his wounds boil. He cried out your name. You were not in his arms. Where could you possibly be? Were you harmed too? What if you were harmed worse than him? You were younger and weaker than your maker. Lestat had to put himself together and find you, his dear fledgling. When he pushed opened his coffin lid, he saw the the wide open curtains that were usually closed. It was dark outside. The moon light was the only thing that was bright in the pitch black room.

It was only then he saw his burned body. Front of his arms, his whole chest, his thighs and his face were all covered in ashy wounds that were slowly healing. His blood red flesh was showing trough the burned skin pieces. They sizzled as the new skin was forming over them. But before he could think about his wounds, he had to find you. Why the curtains were open? They were always supposed to be shut. Just in case if any of you had to wake up when sun was still up during the day. He dragged his feet to the short, wide corridor of the second floor. All the doors and the windows were open, he frowned in confusion. His head was banging quiet like a bomb explosion. His body was aching and he was afraid. He was afraid just like the night Magnus took him from his room.

He walked fast as he could and entered the music room. You were no where to be seen. Lestat’s nose scrunched when he breathed in the strange smell in the room. He felt the smell stick onto his lungs and enter every bit of him. It was haunting and indescribable. It almost felt like he could taste it on his tongue. That strange, unpleasant, obnoxious flavour was so familiar on Lestat’s throat, yet he could find no name for it. He took few steps to his piano. His favourite tunes ringed in his ears. He could see your ghost of a fingers on the keyboard, playing all gracefully.

When he looked down, a pile of grey, powdery substance caught his attention. How could he possibly not see this when he entered the room? He got on his knees and the source of smell was undeniably found. As he touched the powder, he felt his whole body shake in horror. His eyes closed tight when the faded memory of you getting up from the coffin came back.

“I love you. I love you. I love…” the words were repeated over and over again. Not thousands but maybe hundreds and thousands of times. He could hear you. You were not in the coffin. He could hear your steps in the room. Then he could hear your steps in the corridor. You were going in and out of rooms. Lestat could hear you mumbling things under your breath. He could hear your heartbeats and your rushed moves.

He wanted to open the lid of his coffin and get out. It was probably near sunrise and you had to go back to sleeping. When he pushed the lid, something blocked his exit. He tried to kick it and punch it when he heard you play the piano and keep talking.

“I want to see the sun rise in the sky again.” You said. “I want to see the clouds on the blue ocean of time.”

He called for you but you were not listening to him. As you played the melody from start to end, the fear in Lestat’s heart grew stronger. And when your fingers stopped, he felt a sharp pain all over his body. It was something he had never felt before. The greatest pain he felt was when he was transformed. He could never forget what it felt like for the next thousand years. But this, this was different. It was coming from somewhere deep. He wanted to rip his stomach open and find the core of the pain. His coffin got filled with his dreadful scream and he heard you shout in agony. He felt the pain in every inch of his body. With one last hard kick, he opened the lid successfully. Only to be greeted by bright, warm sunlight that was glowing beautifully in your shared chambers.

His skin started to burn immediately, and it was then Lestat knew what was happening. His jaw clenched and his tears burned his wounds when he heard your screams from the other side of the house.

“What have you done?!” He shouted but you didn’t respond. The sunlight was nothing compared the pain he was in as you kept burning. He could feel his blood boil in veins as yours dried up under the daylight. You were leaving him.

‘I have loved you, with everything I had in me.’ Lestat didn’t know if you spoke aloud or he just imagined, rather wished you have said it. Maybe it wasn’t too late, Lestat tried to get up but his body was damaged enormously. He could feel the sunlight penetrate into his bones with every second he was spending in front of the open curtains. But he had to save you! He cried and tried to get up again. And again and again. Until he couldn’t hear your screams anymore.

The house fell into a dead silence in seconds. Only thing that could be heard was the silent sizzling of Lestat’s burns. He stoped breathing and he stoped trying to get up. His lifeless eyes fell onto his hands. He laid back in his coffin and pulled the lid back on with a stinging move.

It was a nightmare. An unbelievably bad nightmare. Maybe the worst one he had have been for decades. You were sleeping in your own coffin peacefully. Lestat was going to see you when sun came down and he was going to kiss your lips with a smile on his face. He was going to carry you around the house like a princess and read your favourite poems just for you. You were going to forgive. And maybe in time, you were going to forget. He was going to change and try to be someone better than who he was now. Both of you were going to be happy again, together. He smiled with excitement with the thoughts on his mind. The smell of burned flesh tickled his nose.

—

“You do not know this girl!” Lestat said aggressively as he watched Louis lay the little girl on the bed carefully. Louis’s bright green eyes were full of fear and guilt when he faced Lestat again.

“Make her like us!” He said with a bitter hope in his voice. Lestat pressed his lips together when he heard him utter those words. This cannot be happening, he assured himself hopelessly.

“Non c’est impossible. Elle est trop jeune!” Lestat said in frustration as Louis walked closer to him with hurry. Lestat's heart was pounding fast in his chest. The images of a distant memory was blurring his vision. The same eyes from decades ago were looking at him again. The same eyes that were full of guilt, sorrow and hope with an innocent child at the edge of death in the arms of the person he loved. His chest tightened when Louis kept talking, pleading to save the little girl’s life. What could Lestat do? Was he curse to live same life over and over again for the rest of the eternity?

He could never forget you. He didn’t know how long he mourned you. Days, months, years? Maybe he was still mourning you with the little box in his closet that was filled with your ashes. It took him years to find the courage to try again. And when he kissed Louis for the first time, he felt like finding light in his murky world. But guilt ate him inside out. He wondered if you would be wounded when you learned that he was capable of loving again. He tried to reassure himself that the thing he had with Louis was different than what he had with you. You would always be his wife. Your wedding ring on a necklace that was around his neck was the proof of it.

“Please I can’t have her die!” The pain in Louis’s voice broke his heart. He remembered this feeling so well that it almost hit him on the face. He remembered how it felt like to be helpless when his lover was begging him to change things, set things right and how he couldn’t do it.

“The gift cannot be given to children.” He said when his anger and fear filled him to his limit. The look on Louis’s face twisted something in his stomach.

“What do you mean? Yes it can.” Louis said breathlessly as he tried to find his strength back. All he needed was to save this girl’s precious life. She laid on the bed, unconscious, coughing out the flames silently and she was all he needed in that moment.

“The great laws forbid it!” Lestat spited out as if he had poison on his tongue. Anger appeared on Louis’s face and Lestat regretted what he just said.

“The great laws?” Louis said mockingly. He sounded bitter and every octave of his voice cut both men deeply. “She gonna die in front of us!”

The next thing Lestat knew was that Louis dragged the little girl on the flour, cried, begged, cried, fell on his knees in front of his companion and cried. Louis’s usually gentle hands found Lestat’s body, he held onto him like he was the last thing on the world.

“Please, please.” It was all Lestat could hear. And the little girl’s raggedy breaths that were becoming slower and slower.

“My beautiful little daughter.” Lestat could not swallow, could not hold his tears back or his heartbeats stable when he heard Louis’s voice shatter as he said the words. He hated how his story repeated itself. He hated how he was always the one who had to make this decision.

“Please I’ll be anything.” Louis begged and cried. Lestat wanted to curl into a ball and never wake up again. He looked down at this companion, his lover, the man who saved him, begging him to make him a father.

“Please, please, please…” It was all Louis was saying when Lestat remembered your screams after your little boy died. He remembered how yours eyes looked dead inside and even your smiles were full of grief. He remembered how you begged him and he didn’t listen to you. And then how he lost you. He was a fool to think that you were going to be alright after your son died. He was a fool to think you were going to forgive him and be happy again. And he was a fool to think that you were going to stay with him after what he did to you.

There was a no day passed after your death that he didn’t regret not turning that boy. Great laws forbid it! At what cost he had followed the laws when he was on the other side of the world, oceans away from the last vampire he had seen? He regretted his choice everyday of his last few years and he didn’t know if he would be able to mourn one more person.

He looked down at Louis and saw your crying eyes stare back at him. He looked up instantly.

Your former boss and constant mentor had gotten a lot more brash since the vampire Armand jumped him and made him a bloodsucking creature of the night. He used to be straight up insufferable; at least until he allowed the cracks to show during a late night editing session several years ago, in which he revealed how much you reminded him of his daughters, how much he cared for you in a way that was deeper than just a writer and his assistant. He was still insufferable afterward, but you were bonded, considered him family; the pissy, dangerous uncle with a heart of gold you never had.

Which is why you didn’t appreciate him delving into your thoughts and witnessing the orgasm the vampire-turned-rockstar you’d been interviewing with him for the past month had given you just two nights prior.

“Okay, first of all, shut the hell up,” you snapped in a hiss-whisper. “Second of all, you promised not to read my mind, you freak.”

“Hey, that one wasn’t on me,” Daniel retorted gruffly, downing the rest of his whisky in one swig to clear his mind of the traumatic image of Lestat’s face contorted in ecstasy. “That one was so strong I had no choice but to see it. Now I won’t be able to think of anything but what Lestat’s cock feels like when I look at him for the rest of this project.”

You gagged. At least he hadn’t seen you naked. You liked him way too much, despite him being himself, and didn’t want any need to cut ties with him to arise.

“Seriously though, what have I told you about getting personally involved with a subject?” Daniel quipped. He’d recovered from the shock of it all, now glaring at you sternly over the rim of his frameless glasses.

“… To not do that,” you answered sheepishly.

There was a reason you never followed him into the journalism field, only helping on the Lestat project because he’d asked you to, offering to pay twice your annual salary for your assistance; you were way too empathetic, too loving to detach yourself from the people you encountered on personal interest projects like these. It had happened with much less disastrous results when he’d interviewed Louis and Armand, leading to an all-too-close friendship with Louis that persisted even after the project was over and the book published.

A friendship which, thinking of it now, was probably in serious jeopardy now that you’d knocked boots with his ex husband.

“Oh, he’s pissed,” Daniel answered the thought without it being voiced. You scowled, wanting to throw the nearest, heaviest object at him.

“Quit reading my thoughts!” you demanded. “Why is Louis even in your head right now anyway?”

I heard him say you fucked Lestat. That can happen, kind of a subconscious thing when vampires are socially connected like us.

Louis’ disembodied voice seethed in your head, but not with anger at you like you’d expected and feared; he was gunning for Lestat, ready to tear the balls from his scrotum for seducing you, a defenseless mortal, when you already had so much stake in vampire entanglements being Daniel’s protege and Louis’ platonic companion.

You groaned, standing abruptly, shaking the glassware on the table noisily as you did.

“I’m leaving,” you spat. “I need two seconds away from you overgrown mosquitos.”

You stormed out of the restaurant, not caring how much of a scene you made, red in the face that Daniel was trying to suppress laughter at your dig. You were thankful that he didn’t try to call you back, knowing your limits, always respectful of the cooling-off periods you took when you would inevitably butt heads.

The city was cool and peaceful as you exited the building and walked along the river, watching the skyline on the opposite bank and taking deep, heaving breaths.

You felt so stupid for falling for Lestat the way you did, letting him into your bed when you knew every red flag about him; least of them that he would eat you if you weren’t careful. It had been so long since you’d felt so wanted though, and fucking him had made you feel more than just desired; he’d romanced you, devoured you, made love to you in such a way that you felt like your soul had been touched, kissed, worshipped via the senses of your skin. Every second thought was a memory, of his soft laughter, his husky voice in your ear, his stubble scraping the insides of your thighs as his nails dug into your plush skin. You could still feel his lips, the tenderness of them, their ghosts making their way from your jaw to your neck to your breasts to your stomach and lower, lower, until he was playfully nipping at your ankle.

You sighed heavily. You wished he meant any of it.

At least you see he’s a liar.

Louis’ voice cut clear through your own internal monologue, making you grit your teeth.

You won’t make the same mistakes I did with him.

“Louis, I’d really like a moment alone,” you quipped out loud. “I don’t want you in my head right now.”

I’m just making sure you’re okay. It’s a lot, I know, but it’s all ‘cause we care about you.

“Maybe, but it’s also because you all hate Lestat,” you grumbled. “Daniel maybe not so much but you, you especially hate him. You’re going to hold my own stupidity against him when I’m just as to blame as he is for fucking my best friend’s ex.”

Lestat has supernatural powers of manipulation. He could have compelled you into sex and made you feel like it was all your idea.

What Louis didn’t know is that it was your idea. Much as he still loved to pretend that Lestat was this infallible supervillain, all superficial charm and evil intentions without any real substance, the truth was that somewhere, Lestat still cared for him, and in the years since their parting had learned to respect him. You noticed it throughout your friendship with Louis in the way he kept his distance, never pressing, never begging for forgiveness or for Louis to take him back as a lover; it became even more apparent when you met him for the first time and his eyes hardly strayed from you, his attraction to you as little-guarded as every other emotion he felt, but he never once did so much as even flirt with you. He knew what you meant to Louis, knew that acting on his desires would hurt him deeply; it was you who'd crossed the line, asking if he'd like to meet you for dinner after shooting under the guise of "getting to know him better, without lights and cameras in the way", you who invited him to your hotel room, you who told him it was okay, he could kiss you if he really wanted. None of it had been compulsion; you spent enough time around vampires to know when your thoughts had stopped being your own.

"Don't make me a victim," you snapped back at Louis. "You know me better than that."

I know Lestat better than that, too.

"So what, you think Lestat only fucked me to get on your nerves? Because I'll be honest, Lou, I've spent enough time with him to believe that he's not the same bitchy abuser he was when you were together. He's let a lot of it go."

Don't defend him.

"Don't belittle me!"

She's right, Louis. You're infantilizing her. You and I know well she is not some helpless damsel.

"Oh for fuck's sake, not you t-"

You stamped in an angry fit, turning as you tossed your bag onto the cobbled sidewalk in frustration, expecting the lane beside you to be empty but instead meeting the striking blue eyes of a lean, elegant man perched under a nearby streetlight. He grinned at you, amused, stubbing out his cigarette under a studded boot before sauntering towards you.

"... I didn't think you'd actually be here," you told Lestat, stating the obvious.

"I knew you and Daniel were dining nearby to exchange notes," he explained. "I was coming anyway, to offer to walk you back to your hotel, when I heard you arguing with my old paramour. Bonjour, mon cher."

You clenched your hands, focusing on the press of your nails into the lines of your palms, affectively blocking Louis from intruding on any more of your thoughts. It took effort, but it was possible.

"I don't want him to hear us. Please," you begged Lestat. "… I would really like it if you walked me home."

"Of course," he replied. "You have my word."

He bent and gathered your abused bag from the pavement, returning it to you before offering his arm. You took it in a tentative grasp, resting our fingertips in the crook of his elbow. Together, you made your way along the riverside.

The walk was silent for several minutes, time spent basking in the beautiful weather, the unusual serenity of the empty street. With every gentle breath of wind you could smell him, metallic under the musky sweetness of expensive cologne, the same scent you found on your sheets the morning after he'd spent the night. He raised his opposite hand to cover yours where it lay on his sleeve, giving your knuckles a gentle squeeze.

"I presume he found out about us," Lestat speculated, breaching the subject much more gracefully than you would have.

You nodded, a pit of shame opening in your stomach and starting to gnaw at you.

"Yeah. And even though I'm the one who started it, he's convinced you compelled me to get back at him."

Lestat tsk'ed, sucking on his teeth.

"Dégoûtant, those of our kind who do such things. The sex is no fun if your partner is an unwilling puppet. Louis remains certain I did the same to him."

"You stalked him and killed the priest he was confessing to."

"We fucked before that. No coercion necessary."

You glanced over to find the man fixing you with a teasing smirk, another pulse of his fingers around yours.

"Ma cherie, I knew if I were to have you, you would have to come to me of your own volition," Lestat continued. "I knew you would not come willingly if I tried. You were 'off limits', for lack of a better term."

"Because of Louis," you finished his thought.

He sighed softly, tilting his head back as he searched for the correct words.

"... Not just because of Louis," he finally stated. "You are very protective of yourself. I do not think you are entirely aware of it, but you hold your knowledge of your worth like a shield. It is what drew me to you. Instead of fawning over me or outright hating me, you made me feel as though I had to prove myself worthy of you, gain your favor and acceptance to exist in your eyes, let alone seduce you. You demand your permission be given before others may lust after you. It is quite sexy, for a certain type of man."

"And you're that certain type of man?"

Lestat chuckled.

"Excessive eagerness bores me in a lover," he mused. "I enjoy a challenge, and yours is uniquely beautiful."

You considered his words, feeling yourself start to ease. He certainly didn’t sound like a jilted lover trying to get back at an ex, but an inherent distrust still tugged at you.

Something vibrated at your side, pulling you from your thoughts. Lestat huffed as he separated from you to remove his phone from his jacket pocket, laughing jadedly as he showed you the caller ID: Louis de Pointe du Lac. He flicked the call to voicemail, and a moment later turned up the speaker so you could hear the message Louis left.

“I know you’re with her, bitch. Pick up.”

Lestat chuckled, shaking his head as he pressed delete.

“He used to tell me I was melodramatic,” he joked. “I suppose there’s more of my blood within him than either of us realized.”

He took your arm again, pressing himself close into your side, keeping you near.

“… Truthfully I did not want Louis to ever know,” he confessed. “I can feel his adoration of you. He wishes only to protect you the way…”

He didn’t finish the thought, but you heard it as clearly as if you had your own telepathic abilities.

“I know I remind him of Claudia,” you responded. “And in his defense, you do have a habit of killing the women he cares about most.”

Lestat huffed out a soft laugh, jaded, guilty. Perhaps even remorseful.

“He was going to leave me no matter what,” he murmured. “I attempted to delay the inevitable and in so doing I destroyed us both. He does not want the same fate for you, but I cannot deny it, agneau; I want you badly.”

The admission chilled you, warmed you, sent currents through your core to your limbs to your head that made you dizzy. How exhilarating it was to be coveted by the man you desired most.

“I can’t be caged, Les,” you warned him despite the tender thrill of it all. “My willpower is much stronger than Louis’. I’ll only hurt you worse if you try to chain me up.”

“You make me want to be better, despite my propensity to… well, to not do that,” he replied. “Louis… his love for you, what happened between us… the value you know you have. You are a goddess to me. I lay myself at your feet and beg forgiveness. I will do everything to deserve it.”

“… Then you did mean it,” you noted after a beat. “When you said the other night that you want to be with me.”

“I always mean that when I say it,” Lestat replied. “I want forever with you if you will take it.”

“Forever is a big ask after one night together,” you relayed. “If we last… ten years together, I’ll consider it.”

Lestat chuckled, lifting your hand to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

“Ten years is nothing to an immortal life,” he said. “I would wait hundreds if you asked.”

As you came up to the entrance of your hotel, your phone began to ring. You sighed, digging through your bag until you found the offending device and checking the caller ID, though you knew you wouldn’t need to. You sent Louis to voicemail, opening up your messaging app to text him instead.

I’m fine, you told him. Les and I are just talking through some stuff.

It didn’t even take a few seconds before his reply came through.

You’re calling him “Les” now?

You rolled your eyes, typing furiously, quickly, before setting your phone to silent and shoving it back into your bag.

I called him Daddy the other night. Would you prefer that?

Lestat laughed as he read over your shoulder, cradling your head in one of his hands and pulling you close to kiss your temple. He let his lips linger, his nose buried in your hair, the act so loving you felt yourself wanting to melt into him, into eternity and oblivion with him. You knew better than to give in so easily.

“I like the way you bite,” he confessed. “Feisty women used to irritate me, but I have come to appreciate them. I like the way you wear your spirit.”

Your expression softened as you looked in his eyes. You knew this change was because of Claudia, his guilt over the part he played in her death. You didn’t say as much, simply lacing your fingers with his and leading him through the sliding glass doors into the hotel lobby.

Daniel was waiting for you inside, leaned against one of the ugly chairs in the lounge by the reception desk, launching himself gracefully off it and striding towards you with purpose as you entered. You tried to remove your hand from Lestat’s, but he held firm.

“Louis’ about to get on a plane and use your severed head as a punching bag,” Daniel gruffed, looking at the fellow vampire. “Very vivid imagery I’m getting here.”

If you weren’t speaking to Louis, Daniel would be. He tried so hard to act detached but the truth was he cared just as deeply for Louis as he did for you. It was sweet, in a fucked up way. You tried not to remember the fact that Daniel was very disappointed about not fucking him, high off his ass, in a coffin when they first met in the 70s.

“Tell Louis I’m fine,” you told him. “I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

“You’re mortal,” Daniel rebuffed, “you’re practically a lamb in a lion’s den. Armand erased my memory and took my own agency away from me for fifty fuckin’ years and you think this asshat won’t do the same or worse to you?”

“Well for one thing I’m not tweaked out on twenty different kinds of heroin and ecstasy so I’ve got that working in my favor.”

It was a low blow, and you regretted it the moment you said it. You shrank back at the hurt in Daniel’s eyes, but you could feel something involuntarily within him, like he knew he deserved it. He sighed, glowering at Lestat.

“Lie to me and I’ll find out and feed you your own testicles,” Daniel warned. “Did you compel her?”

“No.”

An answer without hesitation, firm, paired with a gentle squeeze of your hand. Daniel sized him up for a moment before backing down, but only slightly.

“Call Louis,” he said to you. “Or he’ll kill your little concubine here.”

You smirked a little as he gestured to Lestat, the tension between the two of you broken.

You gonna be okay? Need me to keep watch tonight?

A slight shake of your head and the issue was dropped. Daniel nodded, placing a hand on your shoulder as he passed you and gripping you tightly, a silent acknowledgement of his care. You watched as he slid out the hotel doors, no doubt off to hunt now that the night’s drama was subsided.

“To be loved by some of the worst people living in this or any era,” Lestat mused, lighthearted. “How does it feel?”

You laughed softly, wrapping your arm around his sinfully tiny waist and folding into his side.

“Exhausting,” you replied. “It’s like I’m living in an episode of Real Housewives, except instead of a bunch of middle aged gold diggers I’m surrounded by disaster gays who have all fucked each other at least once.”

“Daniel’s not my type. At least you’re safe from that.”

You held each other in the elevator up to your floor, the walk to your room silent in a comfortable way. Lestat paused at the threshold after you slid your key in, standing close but not crossing into the room. His eyes traced your features, gentle, reverent.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, barely a whisper.

You shook your head, your nose almost brushing his.

“It’ll only cause more problems if you’re here when I call Louis,” you regretfully explained. “I don’t want to drag up any of the bones that should stay buried.”

Lestat nodded, conceding despite how tense you could feel he was, every muscle contracted against the press of rejection, no matter how fleeting, how gentle. You leaned in and pressed your lips to his, palms laid on his chest, holding the kiss firm until you needed to breathe. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as you pulled away, stealing another kiss from your forehead.

“I will be listening if you need me, or want me,” he told you. “Bonne nuit… my sweetest love.”

You resisted parting from him as much as he did you. You wanted nothing more than to curl into your mattress like you did with him before, when your bodies were spent and still tangled in each other, his head on your chest and his hands tracing every curve they could reach. He was impossibly easy to submit to. It scared you. It thrilled you.

Louis answered your call after the first ring, going on a minutes-long tirade about the dangers of being alone with Lestat the moment he picked up. You laid back on the pillows on the bed and just listened, letting him release his rage to make way for more civilized conversation.

“You remember we already had sex, right?” you drawled once he quieted. “And that I’m neither dead nor undead and he has in fact called me.”

“That isn’t my point,” Louis snapped.

“Lou, please,” you begged, exasperated, exhausted. “I don’t want to fight. If you’re upset with me for sleeping with Lestat because he’s your ex and that’s a shitty thing for a friend to do, I can accept that. I’ll walk away from him forever if that’s the reason you’re doing all of this because the last thing I want is to hurt you. But if it’s still about what happened between you two, with Claudia, I don’t want to be dragged into that. That’s for the two of you to resent each other over for eternity. The Lestat I know has grown from that and I want to give him the chance to show me as much.”

Louis was silent for several moments, no doubt considering the very uncomfortable truth that he actually didn’t care what you did with Lestat so long as the man treated you well. He was likely pacing, prowling back and forth along the pit of his living room, shoulders tense and teeth slightly bared. You simply waited, allowing him to work it through and come to you with his own conclusion.

“You’re sure he didn’t compel you?” Louis asked after ages, his voice resigned.

“You and I both know Lestat only wants a lover who’s willing. He’s an asshole but he’s not that big of an asshole that he’d rape someone.”

“… Yeah, unfortunately he does have a heart somewhere inside him,” Louis surrendered. “He likes it when people doubt he does but he does have one.”

“Nobody doubts he does,” you said with a slight smile. “He’s very bad at keeping it hidden.”

Louis chuckled softly, and you could practically feel the weight lifting from his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he told you. “I just can’t see another person I love get hurt by what’s between Lestat and me.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “If he does anything even a little bit out of line he’ll have hell to pay from all of us. And honestly I think he’s just… tired. Tired of the pain of it all. You hurt him too, you know.”

“I know,” Louis murmured. “I also know that if anyone’s got enough love and strength in their heart to handle him, it’s you. You’re good at dealing with toxic men.”

“I know,” you deadpanned. “It’s literally the only thing I ever do.”

Louis laughed, genuinely laughed, the sound rolling from his stomach and into the atmosphere, cracking your heart wide open. You didn’t hear him laugh nearly enough, and he deserved to.

“I miss you,” he confessed, mirroring your own emotions. “Come to Dubai when you and Daniel are done blowing smoke up Lestat’s ass. We can drink coffee and do yoga and catch up on all the trash TV we missed watching together because of the time zones.”

You smiled, wishing he were in the room so you could pull him into your arms. There was nothing better than to hold him, to know you were loved for yourself and nothing else; no ulterior motives, just affection between two souls.

“I’ll be there,” you replied. “I’m gonna need a fucking vacation after this anyway.”

Another laugh, refreshing and reviving as the first birdsong in spring. You would never not be thankful for these men, you realized, surrounded not only by their problems but by their love in all its varying forms. It was humbling.

“I love you, Louis,” you said, not thinking, just feeling.

“I love you, too,” he echoed. “You should get some sleep.”

“I should,” you conceded with a sigh. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Let you know if Lestat’s back on his old bullshit.”

“He won’t be,” Louis stated, quiet, firm. “He knows what good he has with you.”

Your chest tightened, fluttered. There was no way you could be as good as that, but you would always allow Louis to let you believe it.

“Goodnight, Lou.”

“Goodnight, lamb.”

You stood and tossed your phone on the bed, sighing heavily, rolling your shoulders to release some of the tightness in them. Your head felt light in a good way, clear like coming out of a bad migraine. You crossed the room to the balcony doors and slid them open, stepping into the night and just allowing yourself to breathe.

“Is he over his little tempter tantrum?”

Lestat was there waiting for you, perched on the railing like a stray cat, his eyes just as bright as he watched you come toward him. You laughed, shaking your head, but moving no more hesitantly into his open arms.

“You’re ridiculous,” you chided. “Please don’t make this a habit.”

Lestat grinned, showing his teeth, hooking his arms low on your waist and letting you lean on him as he stole a peck from your lips.

“Take me as I am, cherie,” he playfully begged. “When I love, I love viciously, and for always.”

You held his face in your hands, your thumbs smoothing over the high points of his sharp cheeks, watching the way his lashes drooped with longing as he looked back at you. He still had a lot of proving himself to do, but you would hold him close to your heart until he earned the key to it.

“Stay with me tonight,” you whispered. “No sex. Just hold me while I sleep.”

“I will always,” he breathed. “As long as you want me, I am yours.”

You took Lestat’s hand and led him inside, shutting the doors and the world along with them. You slept cradled on his chest that night, his eyes glowing in the darkness of your room as he watched the hours creep on into blushing dawn through the cracks in the tightly drawn curtains. Your soft snores were like gentle melodies to him, every little imperfection a gift, a new beauty for him to unravel and cherish. When you finally woke and were quietly surprised to find him still at your side, he ached, his love for you solidifying itself in his long dead heart in that very moment. Daniel and Louis thought themselves your protectors, but he would maim himself, stand in open sunlight, drive the stake through his own chest if it meant ensuring your safety, your trust in him.

They had come from your human flesh and were given a chance at survival with your tainted blood. The sweet agony of hearing their screams during birth and their subsequent transformation was almost unbearable. It meant they were alive, and that was one of the worst things they could be under Vincent's roof.

You fantasized about what your life would be like without the burden of your children. If perhaps you had never allowed yourself to be entranced by Vincent in both life and death, you would already be in the ground. Rotting seemed preferable to the life you led with your family.

The oldest of your children, Alexander, was disappointing. He failed at virtually everything a vampire of his age and caliber should have already succeeded at. His own coven, fledglings, responsibilty you had the unfortunate privilege of having at half his age. None of the hopes you had for him never fully realized, and you made sure to mention it whenever you got the chance. You were not deaf to the gossip and insults that were hurled his way by other members of the coven; you simply stopped caring to refute them ages ago.

Helen and Dante, your third and fourth-born respectively, were your saving graces. They had enough sense to hide away far out of sight from the rest of the coven's prying eyes before they could embarrass you further. You made sure they had a semblence of status as your children, but your efforts only distanced themselves further away. They were sweet and pliant in a way that gutwrenchingly reminded you of yourself, long ago. Before the blood and the killing and Vincent.

And then there was Amon. He was the only one out of your children that truly saw you. The only one who steadfastedly assured you that you had made the right choice in staying with Vincent, among other things. You tried your best to ignore that glint in his eyes when he looked at you. It was like he saw you as more of a person of interest, a fine specimen rather than his mother and superior. What terrified you the most, however, was his willingness to defend your honor over the smallest of slights. While it was…rewarding to see the aftermath of his attacks, you scolded him endlessly that he was not yet free to do whatever he wished and that he was no coven leader.

That seemed to work, if only for a short while. But nothing stuck forever, and then there would be another crisis for you to tend to.

Despite his best efforts, Amon remained as equally troublesome as Alexander. It sickened you to think what would become of your oafish older sons and unsullied younger children.

Vincent was another story entirely. It was one of your deepest sources of shame, how you came to be his.

—

You could hardly look away from him. A vampire with dark olive skin and piercing orange eyes was before you, a beauty unlike anything you had ever beheld. His lips were engaged in conversation with Vincent, an exchange between coven leaders. It was a sight you were accustomed to, but never was a leader as poised and attractive as this one.

"Ow! " You whipped your head around at the sudden exclamation from behind you. Dante was rubbing his arm, with Alexander looking a little too innocent for your liking. The look you shot the two of them made their backs stand a little straigher.

"Are they going to be a problem, Signore Vincent? " The Parisian coven leader, Armand, asked your maker.

Vincent coughed, springing you into action by offering a steady hand on his back and a handkerchief. He waved you off, but leaned on your palm as he responded.

"No, Maître. You must forgive my children, they are quite adept at, " He paused to ponder a gentle description of your sons. "Unruly displays of affection. But I swear to you that we will cause no disruptions to your troupe. "

"Very well. " Armand flicked his attention between you and Vincent before stepping aside and allowing you all further into the theater. You guided your maker to a seat as he began his coughing fit.

Alexander, ever the 'charmer', immediately honed in and began chatting up a dark haired vampiress. Amon sulked in a corner, joined by his sister shortly after. Dante was quickly singled out by members of the band and was in enthusiastic conversation with the musicians.

"You're doing it again. " You looked down at Vincent. At your confused look, he said, "Pinpointing every one of them, keeping tally marks of their transgressions and concocting a speech for later. "

"I don't concoct. " You said, incredulous.

Vincent seemed to disagree. He took your hand, and it took everything in your being not to wrench it out of his clammy grasp. "Stop your worries. Everyone is safe, and you need not be so guarded. "

Training your face into a strained grin, you wordlessly nodded. You gently unslipped your hand from him and whispered.

"I'm going to coffin. Tell the children I said good night, please. " His smile and soft eyes haunted you on your trek from the foyer of the theater to the inner bowels of the building. You found your shared coffin with relative ease, considering its position in the middle of the room. Your children's coffins encircled the space to make it seem like a mausoleum.

You contemplated locking yourself in the coffin with a padlock, never to emerge for anyone or anything ever again.

"That would not be wise, " A voice spoke from the ether, jolting you from your thoughts of passive despair.

"Maître? I apologize, I did not mean for my thoughts to be so…intrusive. " You offered, clasping your hands together, knuckles turning white. The coven leader, your new leader, approached your form with a confidence you had not seen Vincent carry himself with in ages. You maintained eye contact, his golden irises never once wavering to blink or drag his gaze up and down your body. It was like he was psychically trying to pry open your soul, hold it in his hands for the both of you to see.

What terrified you the most was the fact that you wouldn't have denied him that privilege.

He leaned close to your face, still fixated on you. "Are you unhappy with your lodgings? Is the space my coven has graciously prepared for you and your family inadequate? "

You shook your head. He beckoned you to speak. "No, not at all, Maître. I simply…" Your gaze left his as your mind drifted to your maker. "I do not easily acclimate to new surroundings. I..wanted to find comfort on my own, rather than disturb Vincent with my tossing and turning. "

"Your Vincent does not tolerate you getting comfortable? "

"…Quite the opposite. Vincent revels in making me as uncomfortable as possible. " You hanged your head in shame. You didn't catch the split look of understanding that showed on Armand's face before he spoke.

"I see. " He turned his head towards the coffin, still unopened and the newest one from the local funeral parlor. He lifted the lid with one hand, and you tilted your head to look at the interior.

"I was told that this particular lining is quite lush. " He took your hand, ignoring the slight flinch the moment his flesh grazed yours, and placed it on the inside walls. The fabric lining the interior was unlike anything you had felt before.

"Is this velvet? " You looked at him in disbelief, gasping at his soft smile and nod. You backed away from the coffin as if you were burnt. "I-We cannot thank you enough, Maître. Truly, this is a gift we do not deserve-"

"Nonsense. " Armand gently interrupted your protests. "You are vampires, same as the rest of us. We all know the importance of rest, and the place where we choose to lay our head greatly influences our ability to hunt. " He took your hand once more, finding your wide-eyed gaze as he placed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. "Another influence happens to be the person we lay with, as well. " You gulped, mostly in shock and partly to smother the simmering lust you felt bubble underneath the flesh Armand's fingers found.

Just as you were about to act, whether to act upon your desire or push him away, you would never know. A scream and the sound of objects being thrown snapped you and Armand out of your shared reverie. You snatched your hand back, immediately speeding away towards the building commotion.

The main foyer was in disarray, chairs and wayward bottles were in pieces on the floor. A crowd of vampires were shouting profanities and pleas to stop fighting, and you couldn't tell where your maker and children were. You managed to zero in on a flash of your youngest child's, Dante's, hair color. Your hair color. Your child was the one in danger.

You launched yourself straight into the crowd with your supernatural speed, inadvertedly knocking several members of Armand's coven to the ground with the force of your appearance. Dante was being held to the floor, screaming and bleeding from the head, an older vampire whose face you could not see cackling at his despair. Helen lay crumpled on the floor next to him, although you were unable to see any wounds. You acted without thinking and slit the throat of the vampire holding Dante down, picked his shocked form up and threw him to the side.

You kneeled to Dante's writhing body, your questions almost inaudible by his cries of pain. You shushed him quietly, bringing his and Helen's head to your lap. A quick nick at your wrist made the blood come flowing out and into your son's mouth. As he began to suckle, you locked eyes with the closest vampire, one with curly parted hair and a frightened look.

"Where is my maker? Where is Vincent? " He shook his head. "My Alex? And Amon? " They all stared, slackjawed and wide eyed.

"FIND THEM. NOW! " Your voice boomed throughout the room, spurring the crowd into action. Dante unlatched himself from your wrist with a groan, and you gingerly smoothed back the hairs on his head. You moved your bleeding wrist to Helen's mouth, urging her unconscious mind to drink.

"Shh, love. Where is your father and brothers? What happened, Dante? " He swallowed before speaking with blood stained teeth.

"Vincent wasn't feeling himself, he-he asked Alexander to escort him outside. I think he was with Eglee, so he ignored father. Amon said he'd do it. I don't know where they went, but next thing I knew Santiago was throwing his arm over me, and-and he was squeezing so hard! Helen tried to stop him but he didn't. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry. " Dante continued rambling, breaking down into sobs that you shushed away.

You helped Dante sit up so you could hug him properly. Helen made a small sound in her sleep, and you sighed in relief. You wanted to sob, too. You settled for squeezing your children harder.

—

Both coven leaders were talking in Armand's office. Amon returned alongside his ailing father immediately at your psychic command. They were supposedly on a father-son walk, one filled with revelations and a structured bond as your two youngest children were actively in harms way.

You replayed the moment you shared with Armand at your coffin. How foolish were you to think that something as trivial as a coffin was enough to signify a true alliance. Your anger showed in the rhythmic pattern your nails made against the wood of your seat. There was a pain steadily growing throughout your jaw with how tightly you held it shut for fear of unleashing a frenzy held deep within your soul.

The sound of footsteps approaching you caused you to stand, arms crossed and your teeth clacking in rage and impatience. Vincent slowly entered the room, helped by Alexander. You crossed the distance in a flash to deliver a blow to the head to your son. His head cracked against the wall, and his face morphed into one of betrayal and hate.

"That, " You pointed at him, swatting at Vincent's attempts to corral you away from Alex. "Was only a fraction! Of the pain your brother and sister endured in your absence. " You raised your hand once more, but lowered it almost immediately. You scoffed and shook your head. "You are no child of mine. If only it were possible to return to my mortal years, I would've ensured I would never be able to bear a son as useless as you! " You screamed at his putrid face, all twisted into a scowl, as if he had any right to act indignant. Vincent tried once more to calm you, but you ripped yourself away from his grasp.

"Out. " You dismissed your oldest disappointment out, and he left with nothing but a slam of the door. Your maker, despite his weakened form, was sturdy enough to pin you to the wall you had knocked Alexander into just moments ago. You squirmed in vain as Vincent began to bombard you with his own form of torture.

You could do nothing as his fangs sunk into your neck and began to drink. The feeling of his mouth suctioning your blood into him, nourishing him as it weakened you, was one you were all too familiar with. There was a cobweb in the corner of the room, and you wondered if the spider that created it was satisfied with its work or if it too was miserable in the web of its making.

After what seemed like hours of feeding, Vincent finally unlatched himself from your neck and allowed you to collapse to the floor, hard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and you noticed he stood a little straighter, maintained his balance a little easier now that he had his fill of you.

"Armand has allowed us to stay, grazie Dio. Groveling is something I despise doing, you know that. " He nudged your head with his shoe. "Isn't it? I was asking you a question, dear. "

"Yes. I know. " Your words tumbled out like a small child still learning syntax.

"And yet, I had to do sooo much of it. No thanks to your, " He hissed out the final word as if it pained him to say it. "Theatrics. " His hand found your scalp, tugging you up onto your tip toes. You grasped at his hold, fighting to be let free, to fall to the ground so you wouldn't have to look at him.

"I believe a thank you is in order, dearest. Would it not be for me, you would have been outcasted. Discarded without a second thought. " He pouted his lips and you wanted to rip them off. "But your children need you. Your husband needs you. We can't live without you, carissimo. " His lips grazed your cheek as a blood-tear trickled down your face.

"Well? "

"T-Thank you, Vincent. I wouldn't-could never live without you or the children either. " You managed to choke out as his tongue lathed up the trail of your tear. He hummed against your skin.

"Of course, my love. I expect Armand to feel that same regret from you, alright? " He smiled at your confused expression before pressing a kiss to your lips.

"He requested to see you tonight. So I expect to hear nothing more of this nonsense after you are done with him, yes? "

"Yes, Vincent. "

"Hm, what a good pet. "

—

You made your way to Armand's office on unsteady feet. Everyone else had gone to coffin, although you suspected that they had simply confined themselves to rooms in the Theater to avoid interacting with you and your family anymore. You couldn't find the energy to blame them, or do much of anything but trudge slowly to Armand.

The only thing that kept you moving was the thought that you didn't have to spend the night with Vincent's fangs buried in your neck. Not even to feed. Just to hold in his jaw a reminder that he could take away your Dark Gift as easily as he had given it.

Armand opened the door himself before you had a chance to knock. You did little more than sway for a minute before him before he caught you. Any strength you had left in your body was fading quickly, and Armand understood that you needed to feed.

He cradled your head so tenderly you almost sobbed. You wrapped your arms around his midriff, and he allowed it. You smelled his blood, but you ignored the urge to latch onto him and drink in favor of being held for just a moment longer.

"I will not let you go. Please feed, you need to regain your strength. " He whispered close to your ear. You allowed his wrist to rest on your lips and you suckled. Armand let out a sigh, and he began to stroke your head. Mentally, you asked the question:

"Why are you being so kind? I attacked one of your own, I should be punished! "

"Based on your state, I say you have suffered enough. Santiago was out of line, and he was swiftly dealt with, thanks to you. " You paused at your feeding to gaze up at his face. "You were brilliant. Santiago needed to be silenced, and he was. I understand that you were just trying to protect your children. Your protectiveness is…admirable. "

Your face was in Armand's hands. Once again, you allowed yourself to be picked apart and looked upon with total vulnerability by this entity in front of you. Armand smiled as he wiped away a drop of blood from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. He offered the smudged liquid to you, and you allowed the tip of his finger to press against your tongue. You closed your mouth, lathing his appendage in your saliva, never breaking eye contact with Armand once. He slowly pulled away his thumb from your mouth, and you pressed a kiss to the tip of it before he removed it entirely.

He smiled at your rejuvinated face, your eyes filled with that same lust from eariler that night. Armand allowed you to pull him in, to press your lips against his and taste his blood. He guided you to his coffin, allowed you to manipulate his limbs to your liking, and later hold you in the afterglow of your communion.

"Maître? " He pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder and hummed. "Did…Did Vincent beg you? "

"What? "

You turned to rest your chin on his chest. "Vincent. He told me that he begged and groveled to try and convince you to let me stay. Is what he says true? "

Armand stroked your cheek. "Quite the opposite. It felt like I was the one convincing him to allow you to stay. " The change in your demeanor was immediate. He continued.

"Like I said, I was moved by your dedication to your family. Vincent, on the other hand, saw your devotion as, and I quote, 'a fucking nightmare'. " He gently patted your face to bring your focus back to him. "I have no reason to lie to you. Please, if you truly want the best for you and your children, you know that it no longer involves Vincent. "

"But he said…was all of it a lie? " Your breathing started to get heavy, and Armand pinched his face together in pity. He pressed your face into his naked chest as you sobbed, your tears leaving a bloody mess in its wake.

He had no reason to lie, but that did not mean he had a reason to tell the truth, either.

Bestie doesn’t really know how to hunt, but she’s picked up some information from Armand and she’s feeling more clearheaded than Daniel. For the first few times, it’s easier for her to lure someone unsuspecting out into an alleyway than have Daniel get them himself.

She’s like a lioness carrying weakened prey to her cub that’s still learning how to hunt <3 It doesn’t look too maternal in practice, but there’s this sense of ‘I want to make sure you’re fed and taken care of, that matters to me’ that Daniel can pick up on. It’s strange, but also kind of nice.

It wasn't a special night. Maybe it should've been, given how it ended. But it was a plain night. Rehearsals in Detroit. You'd been tasked to figure out cable management as the band's guitarrist, Larry, had been claiming the cable for his guitar wasn't long enough. It was the same cable as always, laid out across the stage in the same manner as always, giving him just as much room to move as it always did. You replaced it nonetheless. It wasn't your job to argue with the artists. After plugging everything in, you came back up from behind the speakers, gesturing towards him,

"Is it better now?" As if buffering, it took him a second to figure out, what you'd said, his eyes taking in your body in a way, that made you want to throw up.

You left the stage without another word to return to your other chores when Christine Claire, Lestat's lawyer and judging by her tasks, also manager, held you back by your shoulder, "If Larry's being an ass, you can tell me. I'll talk to him."

"Oh, yeah, should be fine now," he said without moving an inch. You took a deep breath. He could've at least taken a few steps to check if the length was better, but he wasn't even trying to hide, that he'd only called you up here to gawk at you.

He was being disgusting, but you wanted to avoid any drama, "It's alright. I've handled worse," you waved her off. It was true, your last job as a waitress had been way worse, and less handsomely paid. You could handle one guy staring.

You were about to leave the main stage area, when the door to the dressing rooms almost hit you in the face. You tumbled back a few steps, the star of the show, Lestat, prancing past you.

"You're late!" TC, the band's drummer shouted. Lestat climbed the stage unbothered taking a sip from a starbucks cup, he'd brought. The straw slowly turned a deep red and you wondered whether they were doing a Halloween special?

"I had important business to attend to. You wouldn't understand," Lestat said, placing the cup down near his mic stand. The other stage technician quickly started hooking him up to his earpiece, but stopped in the middle of it, looking around. Looking for you. When his eyes finally found you, still next to the door and about to leave, he waved you over. Shit, you'd hoped to be as far away from the band, from Larry, as possible after the cable situation. Your other tasks were mostly waiting for you backstage, so your plan would've worked out, if it hadn't been for Josh, your colleague, ever so desperate to spread his knowledge. Begrudgingly you returned to the stage to join him. He explained some settings to you, so you'd be able to fix the earpiece in case he was absent. And despite listening intently, you felt Larry's intense stare almost like physical touch on you.

"Have you rehearsed that tambourine, Larry?" Lestat's voice suddenly boomed across the stage, startling both you and Larry.

"I know the part," Larry said, finally drawing his attention away from you.

"Know the part? I need you to feel it, understand it!" The blonde took a step towards his guitarrist, "If it is not perfected tonight, I don't want to see you on stage tomorrow."

Larry shrugged, "Yeah, whatever." You could tell that he was playing aloof, but there was a hint of genuine worry underneath his 'dont care'-attitude.

You and Josh quickly finished setting up Lestat's earpiece and left the stage to let the band rehearse. Despite wanting to get away from Larry, you found yourself lingering in the main stage area for just a little longer, listening to their music. You liked their songs, some of them had even made it onto your personal playlist. Getting to hear them live regularly was just another perk of the job, apart from the pay.

Halfway through 'Dancing with myself' you could see a growing frustration on Lestat's features. That wasn't good. He kept kicking at something on the ground. Had you not cleaned the stage properly? He jumped, but when he landed, one of his ankles almost twisted.

"Stop!" He yelled, bringing the music to a halt. He bent down, picking up one of the cables. The cable. The one, that led to Larry's guitar.

"What is this? And why is it everywhere?!" He asked, looking for a culprit. His eyes inevitably landed on Larry, who only raised his hands in defence, "The lady stage tech put it here. She said I needed a longer one."

Of fucking course he'd blame you. Coward.

You grabbed the shorter cable and hurried over to the stage, "I'm sorry, I can replace it again."

Lestat took you in, his piercing blue eyes stopping you dead in your tracks. His gaze was so intense, it felt like he was searching your brain.

"No," he said, taking the cable out of your hands and throwing it at Larry, "He can do it himself."

He held your gaze for a little longer before letting you go. You broke from your stupor, nodded and finally left for the backstage area to return to your other tasks. That was weird, it'd really felt like he'd been in your head of sorts. Or maybe you were just tired. You decided to go with the latter and went ahead to collect the trash bags from the dressing rooms. With a neat bundle of bags in hand, you used your back to push open the back entrance door to take them out to the containers behind the venue. It was a long alley with no lights, the only hint of light being that of the moon, desperately trying to push past thick clouds.

"What a pretty little snack." You almost missed the voice behind you with the trashbags rustling by your side. You turned around, but there wasn't anyone. You really needed sleep, it seemed. You walked farther down the alley, finally reaching the container. It opened with a loud groan, trash falling out at the sides. You forced your bags into the already overflowing container, then brought down the lid quickly to keep them in place. Once firmly closed, something landed on the container with a heavy thud. Too heavy to be a racoon. Too loud to be a tired hallucination. Yellowish eyes stared back at you now. You froze.

"Aren't you going to run?" The face that emerged from the darkness showed prominent white fangs.

There probably were useful guidelines on how to behave in situations like this, scream, don't scream, run, don't run, attack or stay calm, but you couldn't recall a single helpful piece of advice. So, in your panic you opted for, "Uhm, no?"

"How boring, I prefer my food afraid and out of breath. But maybe you're not food?" The yellow-eyed man lept off the container, stopping right in front of you. You could smell his awful cologne mixed with something metallic.

"I don't think I'm food? But we have food inside. I can get you a sandwich from the staff room?", Please don't be a cannibal, please don't be a cannibal, please don't-

"A sandwich? You're cute, I think I'll keep you."

What happened next was a hard to piece together. Somehow he'd wrestled you down and sunk his teeth into your neck. At first there was a searing pain, soon to be replaced by a warm, tingly feeling. But it didn't take long for that to be replaced by the next sensation. Numbness. You felt cold, couldn't so much as move a finger, your heart was desperately pounding in your chest, as if calling for help. Help came. A warm drop of liquid on your tongue like a lifeline, then another. You reached for it, the warmth of it filling you once more. But there wasn't enough, it just wasn't enough. Your mouth, your throat, your stomach burned with hunger. Whatever he'd given you, you needed more to dull the pain. It took you a while before you managed to turn over onto your stomach, the pain forcing you to curl up into a ball of suffering. Once you somehow found yourself face down, you tried crawling after him, but he only looked down at your writhing form, sighing in frustration,

"Why do mine never take?" You heard him ask, exasperated.

"Please-," you managed to croak out, clawing at your own neck. But the man only turned around and walked away, had the audacity to look disappointed.

You sagged back down, writhing in the pain that started to overwhelm your body. Your senses were confused, your vision blurred. But you didn't want to die like this, in some dark alley where no one would ever find you. You tried to focus on the blue metal door to the venue, or at least you'd hoped that's what the blue blob in your vision was, and crawled towards it as far as you could. It wasn't very far. Your body gave out after a few meters, your heart beat slowing down. It became harder and harder to keep your eyes open. The last thing you remember, was the blue blob moving and a voice snarling, "Fucking regionals."

You woke up in the dark. Complete darkness. A wall to your right with some sort of soft lining. Velvet? Your hand cautiously padded around. Above you, another wall, also lined in something soft. Was this- a coffin? Were you dead? Well obviously not, but had you been buried? You patted around some more to your left to see how much space there was, only to be feeling cold skin and muscle. You jolted back to your side of the box. Not only had they done you in, they'd dumped you with some other body. You held back the bile forming in your gut. This wasn't real, it couldn't be. Why would they bury you, when you were clearly alive? Wasn't it like mandatory to have a doctor confirm death before digging the hole?

With a soft groan the body next to you turned over and wrapped an arm around your waist gently pulling you in closer. You held your breath. At least not a dead body, you supposed, but what was going on here? Was he also buried alive by accident? But why?

"Are you awake?" You decided to whisper. No reaction. You asked again, louder this time, "Are you awake?"

Another groan, "I am now." The voice sounded oddly familiar, but you couldn't quite place it yet.

"I think, we might have been buried alive. I think we're inside of a coffin, maybe?" You offered your observations to the stranger. He didn't seem fazed at all.

He let you go, a little laugh escaping him, "We are inside of a coffin, my coffin. But we'll get you your own soon enough."

The laugh and that french accent adorning his words... but it couldn't be-

"Lestat?" You asked. Instead of answering, he pushed open the lid. Light flooded the velvety coffin, temporarily blinding you. You covered your eyes with your arm, sitting up slowly while getting used to the bright overhead lighting. He stood from the coffin holding out a hand to help you out as well. Once your eyes had adjusted, you reached out for his hand only now noticing the blood and the long, sharp nails on your own hands. You didn't take his hand. Stared at your own in shock.

"Oh, yeah, we should rinse that off. But I didn't want to shower you while unconscious." Lestat said, like being covered in blood was a day to day occurrence.

It all came back to you then, the pain, you, clawing at your own neck, the door moving.

"Fucking regionals?" You repeated from memory.

"Yeah, left you on the brink of death, half-turned, those asshats. Couldn't even finish it." He re-offered his hand and this time you took it, letting him help you out of the coffin... into his tourbus? That was also when you noticed, that he was merely wearing pants.

You stared at him, in fact Lestat, in confusion, yet unable to form a question or to figure out what to ask first. So you just stated the only thing you knew for certain in this moment,

"I'm starving."

He didn't hesitate, simply sliced his own arm open with one of his nails. And as much as the sight scared you at first, fear was quickly overtaken by hunger. He held his arm out for you and you couldn't help yourself. Manners were forgotten. You grabbed his arm and drank. What was happening here? But shit, it was good.

“You’re so tense,” Douma observed, feigning a pout, though amusement filled his tone. “All knotted up like a frightened little bird. How sad, how pitiful! Wouldn’t it be better to let me make it all melt away?” His tone lilted, teasing, as though he dangled a sweet just out of reach. “I’ve the most marvelous oils tucked away. Rich, fragrant ones. I could give you a massage, hmmm? Ease every little ache of that pretty body of yours. Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

Your face heated instantly, shame clamping down on your throat. “I- I don’t think that’s necessary,” you stammered, your voice uneasy, too feeble against the velvet trap of Douma’s suggestion.

“Ohhh, so shy!” Douma sang in a high-pitched voice, drawing out the syllables like a taunt and a compliment at once. His hand at your nape pressed just slightly. “But why deny yourself a piece of happiness? Why cling to suffering when I offer comfort? What am I saying that is so scandalous, to make your face flush so easily, little lotus? You’ve suffered, haven’t you? Doesn’t my little snowflake deserve comfort and pleasure?"

His thumb pressed deeper into the base of your neck, coaxing another shiver from your body. The pressure was perfect, almost painfully good, untying some hidden knot you hadn’t realized was there. Douma’s voice threaded through you like warm honey, sticky and irresistible. “Let me take care of you, just this once. Let me play with all those tired little muscles until you’re sighing like a lamb in springtime. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You wanted to protest, to guard what little dignity remained, but the weight in your muscles, the ache of loneliness buried deep in your bones, and the deliberate insistence of Douma’s cold fingers kneading the nape of your neck all conspired against you. Against your better judgment, your resolve began to crumble, melting like frost beneath the first hesitant rays of spring. “I… I suppose there’s nothing wrong with a moment or two of happiness…” The words trembled on your lips.

Douma’s eyes sparkled with delight. A soft, amused hum rolled from his throat, vibrating against your skin. “Ahhh! That’s what I like to hear,” he purred, pressing the tip of his long finger gently atop your head. 

The subtle tap made your body lift slightly from his lap.

“There,” he stated, voice velvety and light, “Up you go, little lotus. Come with me. I have somewhere special to show you! I’m sure you’re gonna love it, ha!”

You rose to your feet slowly, muscles still trembling from your previous position curled against his lap. 

Douma extended his arm with deliberate grace, and, hesitating just for a heartbeat, you accepted it, your fingers brushing against the smooth, cool sleeve of his robe.

The two of you walked slowly across one of the wooden bridges that arched gracefully over the vast lotus pond. The water below was clear and still, dotted with floating blooms that tilted in the gentle breeze, their pale pinkish petals brushing the surface like whispers. The place exuded a rare tranquility - a sanctuary Douma allowed to no one, but you were the exception.

You were his favorite human. The one who made him feel… Well, he wasn’t entirely sure what he felt. He had never quite known what it meant to feel happy, not truly; emotions had always been a blurred, distant concept to him. And yet, with you near, his chest loosened, a strange warmth blooming inside - a sensation he didn’t yet have the words to name.

Soon, you reached the massive wooden shōji.

The last glance toward the chamber, the place that had been your resting haven just moments ago, seemed a world away as Douma carefully slid the massive door closed behind you, the echo of its lock sealing the sanctuary from the rest of his temple.

Douma’s hand tightened slightly around your arm as you walked through the dimly lit corridors of the Eternal Paradise Faith temple. He glanced down at you, a huge grin plastered across his face - so wide, so sharp, that it made your skin crawl.

You didn’t like it when he looked at you like that; in these rare moments, he reminded you of what he truly was: a predator, a real threat, a demon.

You remembered the night you caught him - robes discarded, the unmistakable evidence of human flesh in his hands. You assumed it had been a woman. Were you scared? Yes. Terrified, in a way that rattled your very bones. 

Douma had known you saw him, witnessed the raw, primal hunger beneath the charming mask he often wore. Yet instead of killing you on the spot, he had spared your life. “Too adorable and sweet to be devoured, yet,” he had whispered.

Yet. That word hung between you like a knife, a promise and a warning intertwined: the reprieve was conditional, dependent on his whims, and you knew - oh, you knew - that the key word was his alone to wield.

You walked beside Douma slowly, each step echoing softly against the wooden flooring of the dim corridors. Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, like the air before a storm. 

As you rounded a corner, a large chamber opened up before you. The high ceilings echoed with the rhythmic scraping and clatter of brushes and brooms. A handful of Douma’s disciples were busy cleaning, kneeling to scrub the floors or dust the carved wooden beams. The moment their eyes landed on their lord, they snapped to attention, bowing deeply, murmuring respectful greetings.

And then their eyes fell on you.

The faintest frown crossed their faces, subtle yet unmistakable, as they processed your presence perched near their leader. You felt their judgment, even without words, the unspoken question of why their lord favoured you to accompany him so freely around the temple. Their hands tightened on their tools, postures rigid, yet they did not speak; fear and respect warred with disapproval.

Douma, however, seemed oblivious - or perhaps deliberately defiant. His grin widened, impossibly sharp, as he glanced down at you, his fingers brushing lightly against your nape in that familiar, insistent gesture. “Do not mind them, little lotus,” he whispered to you, his voice soft like the finest silk. “They will never understand the choices of my heart. What I desire, what I cherish - it is beyond their mortal comprehension.” 

Turning to face the disciples, Douma’s tone shifted, warm and gracious, almost ceremonious. “The care with which you tend this temple, the precision of your work - it does not escape my attention!” The cult leader exclaimed, eyes scanning the room as though weighing each one’s efforts. 

As you watched him, the smile he wore - the wide, practiced curve of his lips - never quite reached his rainbow-colored eyes. They glittered with their usual kaleidoscopic mischief, a flicker of predatory sharpness that reminded you he was never truly genuine.

You felt the gentle press of his hand along your arm again, guiding you past the chamber. “Keep your gaze on me, little lotus,” he told you. 

As the corridor narrowed beyond the chamber, leaving the disciples’ whispers and bows behind, you walked with a careful blend of awe and comfort beside Douma. 

A pair of grand shōji doors loomed ahead, painted with delicate winter scenery - bare trees, cranes in flight, the moon a pale coin suspended over still water. Douma halted there and turned to you, his eyes flashing like a kaleidoscope catching firelight. “My own little safe place. Not many have seen it, you know.” He slid the doors open with both hands, the movement smooth and reverent, and the scent of cold air and sandalwood poured forth.

Inside, the chamber was startlingly serene. Pale walls, unadorned save for a single painted scroll depicting a lotus blooming through frost. Candles burned in shallow bowls, their flames steady and gold. A lacquered stand bore a small crystal vase filled with white chrysanthemums. And at the center, impossibly ordinary among such aesthetic restraint, lay a futon.

The sight of it struck an odd chord: disbelief first, then quiet curiosity. The idea of him sleeping seemed absurd, almost comical. Douma was a demon after all, untouched by mortal fatigue.

He noticed your hesitation immediately; amusement bloomed across his features like a sunrise. “Surprised?”

A soft breath escaped before words formed. “I… didn’t expect you to have that.” You gestured faintly toward the futon, the pale sheets folded with perfect precision. “You don’t need to sleep, do you?”

“No, of course not.” He glided past you, robes whispering against the tatami, and sank gracefully to his knees beside the futon. “But isn’t it a charming idea? To lie down, pretend to dream, pretend to be human for a while.” His laughter was soft, a shimmering sound that lingered in the air. “I like to play make-believe sometimes.”

He leaned back on his hands, head tilting, eyes half-lidded in lazy delight. “Besides,” the blonde-haired demon added after a pause, “Humans open up so easily in places meant for rest. A futon, a pillow, a quiet corner, it makes even the most frightened little lambs forget that the wolf is sitting right beside them! Isn’t it funny?!”

The words should have chilled, yet his tone wrapped them in silk, turning menace into melody. The flicker of candlelight gilded his platinum hair, turning every strand to molten gold. His gaze lifted to you again, bright and tender. “Now then,” he murmured, patting the empty space beside him, “come sit with me, little lotus. The night’s far too lovely to spend standing so far away.”

With measured steps, you headed closer, caught somewhere between wariness and an inexorable pull. The futon’s edge whispered under your hand as you knelt. 

Douma’s smile curved slowly as his gaze softened. One hand rose to your face, his knuckles brushing the curve of your cheek. His thumb moved in a slow arc along your jaw, and his voice followed in a silken murmur. “Such a sweet face,” he uttered, almost wistful. “Always so obedient. You’ve no idea how lovely you are.”

His fingers lingered a heartbeat longer before retreating, the chill of his touch lingering on your skin like a ghost. Then his tone changed, bright and light again, like a musician switching keys mid-song. “Now then, let’s get ready, shall we? It’s terribly hard to do a proper massage with all those layers in the way.”

You lingered in place, arms folding loosely across your chest, fingertips tracing slow circles over your forearms as your eyes drifted anywhere but toward him.

He made a vague gesture toward your sleeves, the motion airy, dismissive, as though the suggestion were harmless. “Nothing scandalous, little lotus,” he added with a half-laugh. ““Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s just fabric, after all! You needn’t be shy. I’ve seen more naked women than I can possibly count.”

The words fluttered somewhere between reassurance and command, leaving no room for refusal.

Without waiting for your reply, he rose, his movements fluid as he crossed the room toward a low cabinet carved with lotus petals. The faint clink of glass followed as he retrieved a small bottle filled with an amber-gold liquid that caught the candlelight like trapped sunlight. He uncorked it, inhaling with a sigh of theatrical pleasure. “Mmm, camellia, and the faintest hint of citrus,” he mused aloud, eyes glimmering in a hundred shifting hues. “Perfect for weary your little shoulders!”

Douma poured some into a shallow, ornamented bowl - its rim etched with the symbols of the Eternal Paradise Faith - and held it carefully over a nearby candle flame. His hand moved with delicate precision, tilting the bowl this way and that, ensuring the oil warmed evenly. The fragrance began to bloom through the air, soft and intoxicating.

And though his tall body was turned slightly from you, those kaleidoscopic eyes remained locked on your reflection in the polished lacquer of the cabinet door. Watching. Measuring. The faintest curve of his lips suggested satisfaction at your hesitation, your stillness, your uncertainty.

No words passed between you for a long moment. Only the muted crackle of the candle’s wick and the faint sound of Douma’s humming, low, melodic and eerily sweet.

When he finally looked back at you fully, the smile had vanished. His expression was unreadable, all glitter stripped from his face. Only the weight of his gaze remained, heavy as a command.

After a small, nervous swallow, your tongue brushed over lips gone inexplicably dry as you got up to fulfill his wish. Fingers moved with hesitant care as they found the fabric of the obi sash at your waist, loosening it little by little until the kimono’s folds began to ease apart, sliding lower from your shoulders in a slow, uncertain motion. 

Layers of fabric gradually loosened, first sliding from your shoulders, exposing the gentle curves of your collarbones, until your breasts spilled free, unrestrained by the garment that had held them moments before. You shifted slightly, turning your back to Douma as the kimono slipped down to pool at your feet, leaving your naked body fully exposed to his gaze. Heat rushed to your cheeks, burning hotter with every passing breath. Embarrassment crawled up your throat, leaving it tight and dry. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet the demon’s eyes, though you could feel them on you, sharp and hungry, studying every flicker of hesitation like a predator savoring the tremble of its prey.

He tipped the bowl slightly, testing the warmth of the oil with his fingertip. A single drop gleamed against his nail before vanishing into his skin. His rainbow eyes fixed on your body again, taking in the slightest curves. “Oh, don’t be so shy, you’re mesmerizing, Y/N!” He claimed, and his voice was soft again. “Now, let’s see if I can make you forget the world for a little while.”

He crooked a pale finger toward you, his voice lowering into a melodic whisper. “Come here, my lovely lotus. The floor’s cold, and you’ll catch a chill. Lay down, right there, on my futon.”

Your knees felt unsteady beneath you, a strange mixture of dread and reluctant curiosity anchoring your steps. For a moment you hesitated.

Douma tilted his head, his expression the picture of patient amusement. “Don’t make me ask twice, hmm?”

The teasing lilt in his tone burned straight through your soul, and you quickly lowered yourself onto the futon. The fabric was cool against your heated skin, every breath of air whispering against your exposed body. You folded your arms loosely over your chest, but even that gesture felt futile under the weight of his gaze.

He moved closer with unhurried grace, kneeling beside you. “Good,” he praised, reaching for the bowl again. “That’s better, isn’t it? Now, relax, let me see that pretty tension melt away. Turn on your tummy.”

The shame hit harder as you obeyed, your lashes fluttering shut. After laying there for a second, you felt something warm being poured onto your back. 

The oil was trickling down your spine and over your hips, creating a sensual trail of warmth. 

Douma set the bowl aside and began to knead the oil into your skin, his strong yet gentle hands working out the knots in your muscles. He traced the line of your spine, his fingers dipping into the small of your back, then moving lower to your firm, round ass. You let out a soft moan, your body truly relaxing under Douma's skilled touch.

Douma's hands moved lower, his thumbs spreading your soft lips, revealing your slit. He slipped his long, index finger between them, rubbing your entrance with slow, deliberate circles. 

You drew in a sharp gasp, your hips lifting instinctively from the futon as though your body sought the demon’s touch before your mind could catch up.

Douma leaned in, his voice a sultry whisper as his warm breath fanned the column of your neck "Are you enjoying this, little one?” Only a single word slipped past your lips: “Yes.”

“Good,” Douma purred, laughter curling at the edges of his voice. His hands left your pussy and roamed lazily over your oiled skin. “Ah, you really are exquisite, you know that?” Douma mused, voice honey-sweet and cruelly soft. “So soft, so warm, like you were made just to tempt me. Every inch of you begs to be adored.” He leaned closer, his breath ghosting against your ear, “How could anyone look at you and not want to worship?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse drumming in your ears as his words sank in, coating your mind in a dizzy haze of heat and disbelief. His touch was too much to bear, and you had to squeeze your thighs together to prevent yourself from moaning his name. Each slow, circular motion of his hands drew the air right out of your lungs. You tried to steady your breathing, but the warmth of the oil and his teasing voice made your resolve crumble. “Douma-dono…” 

He chuckled lowly, the sound bubbling up from his throat like he was thoroughly entertained by your helplessness. “Oh, don’t say my name like that, my dear. You’ll make me think you actually need me.” His hands never stilled - they glided up the slope of your spine. His thumbs pressed into the small of your back again, drawing small circles before slipping lower, kneading the flesh of your thighs with languid precision. “You’re trembling again,” he pointed out, leaning over you, his rainbow eyes flickering with delight. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Your lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. No one had ever spoken to you like that before. No one had ever looked at you like that either. Your voice trembled when it finally broke free.  “… No one’s ever said so many nice things about me before,” you admitted softly, your cheek pressed against the futon, eyes half-lidded. 

Douma paused for a heartbeat. Then, his fingers trailed lightly down your shoulder, tracing invisible lines across your oiled skin. “Mhm… That’s because most people rush through life, my dear,” he claimed, his voice dipping into a silken murmur. “They don’t stop to see what’s right before them. They only glance, they don’t appreciate. But me? Oh, I have all the time in the world. I can take centuries if I wish, haha!” He leaned closer until you could feel the faint brush of his lips against your earlobe. “And when I find something truly mesmerizing, I don’t mind spending decades just worshipping it.” His hand slid down your back again. “That’s the advantage of being a demon, you see. Eternity gives you time to savor what others rush to forget.”

You heard the faint rustle of fabric behind you - silk whispering against skin, the quiet tug of a belt slipping loose, the soft sound of a haori sliding from his shoulders. It was unmistakable. Douma was undressing.

Your pulse stuttered in your throat. For a fleeting second, uncertainty flickered through you - what you were doing, what this all meant - but the thought melted away beneath the warmth coursing through your veins. 

You didn’t dare look back, though every part of you wanted to. Your heart was still pounding, wild and insistent, but amid that chaos bloomed a single, undeniable truth: this was what you wanted. The tension, the forbidden closeness - it was all you could think about. You swallowed hard, your fingers curling against the sheets.

He crawled onto the futon, his body pinning yours to the mattress. 

You could feel his hardness growing against your slit. 

Suddenly, Douma grabbed a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back, just as the head of his dick slipped between your pussy lips, sliding easily into your soaking wet pussy.

He groaned and chuckled, his voice ragged. "Your pussy is so tight and wet, just I've imagined, haha! My beautiful lotus."

You moaned, your body writhing beneath him - it all happened so fast. One moment, he was giving you the best massage you’d ever experienced, and the very next, his dick was stretching your pussy.

He held your head stretched back so far that you started having difficulty breathing. Douma fucked you harder and faster, pounding you hard into the mattress from behind. 

You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes - the pleasure was too much, too intense to bear.

"I could fuck you forever,” the blonde-haired demon grunted. He let one hand wander between your thighs, pressing and circling your clitoris with deliberate precision while his cock was splitting your pussy open. “Your pussy feels so so good on my cock!” Douma praised, spanking your ass. “Oi! Haven’t felt anything this good in ages, truly! It’s been far too long!”

Your body began to tremble, your orgasm building like a storm. 

He felt your pussy tighten slightly, signaling to him that you were about to cum, and he suddenly pulled out of you, denying you that release. “Not yet,” Douma claimed while easily flipping you to your back.

Before you could even respond, the demon leaned in, claiming your lips in a sudden, consuming kiss. His tongue traced along yours, teasing and exploring with a careful dominance that stole your breath. One hand pressed firmly against your hip, kneading and holding you close, while the other curled tightly around your throat, tilting your head just so, anchoring you to him completely. The kiss deepened, pulling you into a dizzying mix of heat and tension, and every sense screamed with the intensity of his touch.

When he finally pulled back, all you could do was gasp, your wide, pleading eyes locked on his.

He slipped a finger into your pussy, and soon pushed his cock in, too, filling you up to the brim.

Your head lolled back to rest against his futon, and a soft, breathy moan slipped quietly from your lips.

His teeth dug into your neck, shoulders and arms as he fucked your pussy hard, just until you felt your pussy tighten around his cock. 

Douma pulled out again, leaving you screaming and begging for release. He kept his rainbow eyes locked on your body as he slowly jerked his cock, spreading your juices all over the rock-hard shaft. Occasionally, he teased the slit on his tip with his thumb. “So beautiful,” he praised again before leaning forward to lick on one of your nipples.

Soon, he pushed his long dick in again, setting a brutal pace from the start. 

“D-Douma!”

His hand reached up to softly stroke your cheek, praising you for how well you were taking his cock.

Your pussy was overstimulated, and with every thrust he delivered, your body was jerking upwards, so desperate for the release. 

"You feel so good," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. "Your pussy is so tight and so wet, just for me!" Douma sung, fucking you harder. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. "Harder," you begged, "Fuck me harder." The demon obliged, and soon he was pushing so hard that his tip was bruising your cervix.

Your bodies slapped together, the sound of your fucking filling Douma’s chamber. 

"Yes!" You cried out.

Douma chuckled loudly as he felt your pussy clenching rhythmically around his dick. You were oh so close to cumming. Your bodies were slick with sweat as you both chased your releases. Your tongue darted out, wetting your upper lip. “Douma-dono, I think I’m going to cum…”

With a roar, Douma buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he emptied his balls inside your pussy. “Oh, my little lotus, you’re so so good to me! I wish to live in that sweet, tight pussy of yours, forever!” You cried out, your pussy clenching around him as your own orgasm crashed over your being, your velvety walls milking every last drop of his thick, cold seed.

Douma chuckled softly, leaning down to press his lips to yours, his movements gentle and deliberate. "My little lotus, your warmth, your presence, I want you by my side forever."

You returned the kiss, your hands resting lightly on his back. "I’m not going anywhere," you whispered, holding him close. “I… I love you, Douma-dono.”

He brushed his fingers gently across your cheek. "My little lotus.”

@pixelcafe-network @unhinged-bratty-boy @mmari-07 @chiharuhashibira

@fayrt4tte9383 @cemetarygoth @zoldyckbitch @aotdump @shonen-brainrot

instead, luminous tears trail down his cheeks, conjured from the same reservoir of manufactured empathy he has siphoned all his life. beneath the mimicry, something else stirs. shy continents of yearning begin to surface across the frozen sea of his soul, cold and treacherous as the bering strait.

with mild astonishment, the demon realises he has grown fond of you. (the word itself is paltry, but it is the only one he can reach for.) it needles at him, this fondness. it sits like a grain of sand inside a defective oyster—an irritant that can never transmute into a pearl, hurting precisely because of its futility. dōma has always known something is wrong with him. the absolute absence of feeling that defined his existence. awareness has never troubled him before. and yet, when your eyes meet his, they do not reflect the moronic, worshipful glaze of a disciple gazing at their idol. the difference unsettles him. he thinks he likes that, though why, he cannot say.

your finite lifespan is a problem. fleeting decades drift past him like ice floes, but you cannot endure time measured in his scale. dōma imagines you succumbing to old age and disease, and the thought is… vexing. not that it saddens him (sadness remains foreign to the demon) it is more akin to a strand of sinew stuck between his teeth.

for once, dōma finds himself at a loss.

he rolls the dilemma over and over, as he might a string of juzu beads. two solutions present themselves, neither borne from kindness. one: kill you gently, let your blood sluice down his throat, marrow melting into his belly until your essence lives within him forever. the other: offer you his blood, extend your life into an endless night and watch your humanity fade away.

how inverted this is. ordinarily, his logic in consuming his disciples has always been a false benevolence that paints their deaths as salvation. for the first time, he wants something for himself. not for sustenance, merely for the selfishness of keeping you forever.

as your head lolls back, his palm rises to cradle the base of your skull, thumb stroking idly against your nape. a morbid collector’s mind notes the pleasing symmetry of your occipital bone; yet the notion of seeing it stripped of its casing of flesh repulses him. he would rather keep it where it rests now, attached to the living column of your neck.

something is wrong with him. he is certain of it.

the latter path carries its own perils: muzan’s inevitable wrath, should the truth ever come to light—and that man is nothing if not theatrical when enraged. with his obsession on finding the blue spider lily, muzan tolerates no deviation that does not serve his singular crusade. what a temper he’d throw if he discovered one of his upper moons had strayed into a side-quest for something so… frivolous. dōma has the faintest suspicion that muzan doesn’t like him much to begin with. oh well. liking has never been a prerequisite for receiving blood. still, the repercussions might prove entertaining. perhaps his lordship would rip out his tongue or gouge his eyes in a fit of pique—wouldn’t that be delightful? not that dōma is scared of the demon king. the absence of fear remains one of the consolations afforded by his inability to feel.

and yet, the ultimate obstacle remains not muzan, but you. he doubts you would ever accept his offer. your purity is one of the many things he likes about you, making the notion of corrupting you… ah, what word to use… regrettable. he cannot even be certain you would love him enough to forfeit your humanity for his sake. and yet, absurdly, that is what he has begun to crave: not the reverence his disciples lavished upon him—devotion bartered for false salvation—but something far rarer.

all this thinking is giving him a headache. with a little “heh~” of exasperation, dōma lifts one hand. his index finger, tipped with a pointed nail stained with a lavender hue, finds his temple. there’s a wet, glutinous squish as he breaches skin and bone with no more resistance than soft clay, the digit swirling lazily through the pulpy grey matter. there is no pain, only the exquisite release of pressure. a small shudder of relief runs through; his headache dissipates. a viscous trail of brain-matter mixed with dark blood glistens down his knuckle when he withdraws with a soft pop. the wound knits shut at once, skin sealing over bone. unmarred, not even a smear of blood. dōma slips the soiled finger into his mouth, sucking idly at the residue, tasting nothing in particular but enjoying the motion.

a soft exhalation slips from your parted lips, and he tightens his hold by the smallest degree. even in sleep your fingers seek him, curled into the fabric of his robes—you are but a trusting lamb resting in a monster’s lap. he looks down at you and feels, for a fleeting instant, a bewildered flutter in the hollow cavity where his heart ought to be. you look so very cute. the thought arrives with disarming simplicity.

his eyelids lower, half-veiling the kaleidoscope of his irises so it softens to a muted glimmer. the smile remains, serene and unchanging.

ah… decisions, decisions. should he simply absorb you now, keep you forever? you wouldn’t feel a single thing. or he could try the other way, poke a little hole at your neck, his blood filling the cavity. it would sting a little at first, but then—oh, eternity! your pretty face unspoiled by age, your hands still fitting inside his.

how novel, to find himself hesitating.

in his arms you stir, the fog of sleep still clouding your vision before your gaze finally meets his prismatic eyes. blessedly, he does not need to make the decision tonight. his expression brightens—a smile that breaks across his face like sunlight spilling over the horizon.

“ah! you’re finally awake,” dōma coos, tapping the tip of your nose with the very finger he’d only moments ago absently dug into his own skull.

you mumbled half-heartedly about needing rest, but he ignored it entirely. “just one more kiss. pleasepleaseplease pretty please?” you both knew one kiss would never suffice—greedy thing that he was. cold lips trailed down your neck, nipping lightly. you evoked an instinct to consumeconsumeconsume, but for now he’d leave just a trail of shallow marks, little crescents fading to bruises by morning. proof that he’d been a ‘good’ lover and a ‘bad’ upper moon.

before you could squirm away, he caught you around the waist and tumbled you back onto the futon in a careless sprawl of limbs. laughter spilled out as he pressed you down, his birch-coloured hair framing your face like a halo of moonlight. “where d’you think you’re going?” he chirps, the very picture of mischief. “can’t leave me all alone— that’s just cruel!”

when he trailed lower, tongue flicking out to tease your already-sensitive nipple, you swatted his shoulder. “dōma!” you hissed, exasperation colouring your voice.

“what in the world has gotten into you?”

“ouchie! now was that really necessary?” dōma whined, lower lip jutting in a pout that belied the gleam in his rainbow eyes. “i was just tasting,” his words muffled as his hot wet tongue flicked once more. “you’re so cute… i could eat you right up.”

he propped himself on an elbow, watching you with a dopey, lovelorn smile. one you’d come to expect from him, and often it made you feel as though the two of you were in on some bone-chilling farce. for behind those hypnotic, iridescent irises, there was usually nothing at all.

but something shifted. and dōma must have felt it too, because for the briefest instant, a shallow crease appeared between his brows, uncertainty marring the usual placidity of his face. quickly followed by the rosy blush dusting his cheeks, wholly out of place. he blinked, once, twice, as though surprised by himself.