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Girl crush!

pairing: Jamie Campbell bower x younger! fem!actress reader

summary: you never thought you had much of a chance with Jamie due to your age gap so you flirt with him without thinking about it. It’s just a joke. Until it’s not.

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one: first day off shooting

The first scene you shot for season five was with Jamie Campbell bower. It was before Holly was brought to the house and where it was revealed that your character was still alive. That first day on set was always very special to you but now you weren’t sharing it with the people you usually share it with but with Jamie

“Hello darling” he’d greeted you that morning “you ready?” Holy shit. He was wearing black glasses a brown blouse red tie and a slightly darker brown suit, he looked delicious

“No way they put you in this,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He frowned, genuinely uncertain. “You don’t like it? I think it quite suits me.”

“Oh, you look lovely,” you said quickly. “I think wardrobe might actually hate me.”

He frowned slightly, studying your face now instead of his outfit. “What?”

“Nothing,” you mumbled. “Just—if I forget my lines, it’s on those glasses,” you added, pushing yourself up out of your chair and grabbing your sides like you needed the physical movement to reboot your brain.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me!” you called over your shoulder as you walked toward the set, refusing to look back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your expression.

You could feel his eyes on you anyway.

Behind you, his laughter followed—soft, pleased, and entirely too confident.

#jamie campbell bower #x reader #stranger things #stranger things 5 #henry creel #joe keery #steve harrington #henry creel x reader #steve harrington x reader #jamie bower

He’s my man

Pairing: Lestat de lioncourt x fem!reader

Summary: your husband is jealous and petty and dramatic. But he’s yours.

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“Oh please lestat!” Your husband was known for his temper.

That fact had not been hidden from you when you met him—quite the opposite. It had been one of the first things you learned about him, right alongside the far more shocking revelation that the beautiful stranger who had taken such an obsessive interest in you was not a man at all.

He had already been a vampire.

Already immortal. Already centuries old. Already impossibly vain, theatrical, dangerous, and magnificent in equal measure.

And apparently immortality did absolutely nothing to improve one’s patience.

“You expect me to endure this humiliation in silence?” Lestat’s voice rang through the house like a stage actor delivering the final line of a tragedy. “You expect me to stand there like some discarded relic, while you throw your smiles at another man!?” You dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple.

Jealousy. That’s what this was.

Petty. Endless. Exhausting jealousy.

“I did not banish you Lestat, you were welcome to join the conversation”

Lestat scoffed.

“Join the conversation?” he repeated calmly.

“Rejoignez la conversation!?” he shouted a moment later, the calm shattering like glass.

He threw his hands into the air in dramatic disbelief.

“How could I possibly impose,” he demanded, voice dripping with outrage, “when you were eye-fucking the man with the stupid bow tie! Do our vows mean nothing to you?!”

The laugh slipped from your mouth before you could stop it.

It was small. Unfortunate. Fatal.

Because when you watched your husband’s eyes widen — shocked, wounded, and then rapidly igniting with volcanic fury — you knew he was about to really explode now.

“So they do not,” he said very calmly.

Dangerously calmly.

“Give me your ring.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Lestat—”

His palm slammed down on the table with enough force to send the chess set rattling violently before several pieces clattered to the floor.

“Do not mock me!”

You didn’t even flinch.

You just stared at him.

Unimpressed.

This wasn’t the first time he’d asked for your wedding ring back. Hell, this wasn’t even the third time. Lestat was a dramatic creature by nature. Possessive. Territorial. Deeply convinced that emotional theatrics were the highest form of communication.

“Lestat, do not be dramatic. Again.”

“I could hear your heart skip a beat when he spoke to you!” Lestat exploded.

You paused.

Slowly, calmly, you put a cigarette between your lips, flicked your metal lighter open, and held the flame to the end of it.

“That’s physically impossible,” you said around the cigarette.

“You think I cannot hear it?” he demanded, stalking toward you like a storm wearing silk and gold. “You think I cannot hear the small betrayals of your body? The change in rhythm? The slight acceleration when he leaned closer to you?”

You inhaled slowly.

Then exhaled a stream of smoke directly to the side so you wouldn’t breathe it in his face — because that would just make the argument worse and you were tired. “Lestat,” you said patiently, “you cannot hear my heart skipping beats because the heart is not capable of it” it was silent for a second the only sound lestat’s seething anger.

“fine” Lestat then said “do whatever your want” he added “show your tits to a hobo for all I care!” He yelled angrily “but I will not stand here and have you mock me!”

You watched him very carefully.

He turned sharply on his heel.

“I’m going to sleep.”

He started walking down the long hallway like a wounded, extremely dramatic phantom.

“Keep the ring,” he called without turning around. “You’ll be able to rent a nice apartment for yourself when you pawn it.”

You blinked slowly.

“As you did our love!” he shouted from the next room. You stared at the hallway in silence for a full three seconds. Then you sighed again, poured yourself a martini and started carefully reading your book.

You walked calmly to the bar cart, poured yourself a martini with slow, deliberate precision — three parts patience, one part alcohol, a splash of marital tolerance — then carried it over to the armchair by the window.

You sat down.

Opened your book.

And began reading very carefully, very peacefully, very pointedly ignoring the six-foot-two theatrical disaster currently brooding somewhere down the hall.

From the next room, you heard him.

Stomping.

Not quietly, either. Lestat never did anything quietly when he wanted to make sure you were aware of his emotional state.

You heard a drawer open.

Close.

Open again.

Something metallic clinked loudly, followed by a muttered, offended French curse. And then his voice again now aimed at you “I am alright thank you very much wife!” He called sarcastically. Then within ten minutes it went quiet and that’s when you decided to put down your book and walk to the bedroom. You looked to his closed coffin next to yours “Lestat?” You said softly “are you awake?” He did not answer even though you knew he was definitely awake.

“My sweet, stubborn, petty, and beautiful husband,” you said softly.

You could practically hear him roll his eyes from inside the coffin.

He did not budge.

Did not speak.

Did not open the lid.

Just stayed there in stubborn, theatrical silence like a very old, very dramatic corpse with feelings.

“That I even have to address this,” you continued quietly, “that I have to say out loud that I love you and only you is ridiculous to me.”

Still nothing.

You traced your fingers lightly along the edge of the coffin lid.

“I have spent the last ninety years proving that I love you,” you said. Your voice was softer now, losing some of the teasing edge. “Ninety years of standing beside you. Ninety years of hunting with you. Ninety years of listening to you complain about everything from architecture to bad poetry to men with bow ties.”

A faint, suspiciously quiet sound came from inside the coffin.

Not a response.

Just… awareness.

“And you thinking otherwise,” you said, “plainly said, hurts my feelings.”

That was what finally made the coffin go completely still.

“Then,” you continued softly, “further, I have to admit that I was not laughing at the man or his jokes.”

Inside the coffin, you could feel the shift in attention.

“I mean,” you added, carefully, “someone had a very loud thought about how attractive you are, and that just made me laugh. Knowing that they’ll never have you… because I do.”

It was a lie.

The man with the bow tie had been funny. Short. Cocky. A little too sure of himself. Not nearly blonde enough for your taste. But Lestat would never believe you could find someone funny while not being attracted to them anyway so you lied. A little white lie never hurt anyone.

Then the lid opened

“I forgive you,” Lestat announced immediately, as if he had been practicing the line for several minutes inside the coffin, “but only because I hate going to bed angry.”

You nodded.

Because honestly, that was as close to an apology as you were going to get tonight.

You stepped into the coffin — a move that would have horrified most people but was completely normal in your marriage — and settled carefully beside him.

The interior was cool, dark, and smelled faintly of polished wood, old perfume, and something distinctly Lestat.

You rested your head against his chest.

He immediately wrapped one arm around you, pulling you closer in that instinctive, possessive, protective way he always did when the argument was finally over but he was still making sure you were real and still there.

#lestat de lioncourt #interview with the vampire #louis de pointe du lac #claudia #sam reid #vampire aesthetic #the vampire lestat

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