Stitch

30| nerd | active reader

[writingdose]

this and also the only difference between fanfic writers and writers who sell their own original works as careers is that fanfics aren’t monetized. that’s all.

being a “professional” writer doesn’t mean your works are inherently better than fanfics. I’ve read so many fics that are more professionally written than some published books.

whether or not a piece of writing is monetized has nothing to do with its quality.

[stitchattacks]

TikTok - Make Your Day

[just4g1rlyth1ngs777]

for a girl who loves sleep so much you think i’d go to bed earlier

[fascinationstreetmp3]

Assad Zaman as Armand Interview with the Vampire — 3.04

[stitchattacks]

Why is he so adorable in this?

[vampwebonline]

The vampire Armand, doting after his first and only creation.

Sfw. maybe a little ooc. I havent written something for armand in…. Idek.

This is from a prompt L requested about makers checking in on their baby vampires fangs!

His presence was always a balm to you. He made sure of it. You deserved nothing less.

His child- his creation. The only person in this world he wanted to preserve when it fell away. He had walked a lonely road for some time- met vampires of all ages and experience. What he had found was.. abused vampires handcrafted more abuse, starting with their children.

He could be different. He could break the wheel. It started with you, now. It started with love.

You turn before he gets the chance to announce his presence. Your eyes soften fractionally when his figure comes into view in the warm lighting.

“How are you faring?” He inquires. “Has the sickness passed?”

Armand gives you a once over with his eyes. Not too sickly, not too malnourished. Your eyes have yet to fully change over. One of them was a vibrant hue, the other remained rather human. He smiles fondly at your strange case of heterochromia.

“Im hungry,” you reply, the pit in your stomach seemingly endless.

“As all vampires are, my love. It’s a sickness that starves.” He slowly makes his way to you. He greets you with a kiss to the cheek. “I will bring something home to you when the sun is done setting.”

“Or someone,” you joke. He stifles a laugh.

“Or someone.”

Comfortable silence fills the space between you. You find yourself fixing the collar of his shirt.. it was a strange texture. Suede on the torso, the sleeves a vertically ribbed fabric. A silver zipper- youre not sure how he wasn’t burning. Perhaps an undershirt. Despite the slight sting you unzip it partway to peek.

His hand flies to yours to capture it. “Ah-ah. What are we doing?” He accuses in a taunting manner.

“You’re wearing a weird shirt.” You respond, distracted by its not-quite-teal, not-quite-green color. Emerald? No…

He notices your fangs when you speak. They rest strangely on your bottom lip.

“Look up for me?” He requests, wanting to get a better look.

“Huh?” You ask and begin to lift your head. He rests a finger under. Your chin. Even with your mouth resting he can see the little pinpricks of your canines.

“Your fangs, my love. What happened here?” He’s never seen anything like it. You frown.

“Whats wrong with them?” You bare your teeth to show them off and he cant help but crack an endearing smile.

“They look fake.” He cant resist laughing. “Like the plastic kind humans wear for costumes.”

“Dont say that!” You cover your mouth with one of your hands, no longer focused on his clothes. “Youre just saying that because I called your shirt weird.” You protest.

“No, my love- its not a bad thing.” He promises, trying to move your hand. “You’ve just got scraggly fangs. Like a cat. Its not bad!”

“Yes it is. Everyone is gonna know Im a vampire.”

“It will get better,” he reassures you, even if he doesn’t truly know.

You shake your head.

“Yes it will.” He doubles down. “Its cute. It is.”

“Armand,” you give him a serious glance and he doesnt budge on his opinion.

“Give me a kiss,” he asks. You cant resist that. Fine, one kiss.

“I love you.” He reminds you.

“Even if-“

“Armaaaand!”

“No, listen- even if your fangs take up half of your mouth.” He leans to pepper one more kiss to your nose. You turn your head and he misses, getting your cheek. Then the corner of your lips.

“Sto-o-op!” You’re laughing now.

“See? Look at that smile.” He points out. “Beautiful.”

You groan. Hes so sappy sometimes.

“I know.. I know,” you retort. “You tell me all the time.”

He drapes himself over you, trying to smother you in a hug. “You deserve to hear it until you loathe me.” He insists.

[avocad0ess]

I wonder who I would be today if I didn’t develop an obsession with fanficion when I was 11

[slaughterhouse-loser]

The first time he thinks it, the only time he says it, you and Ryland are cleaning his wounds. "Is this heaven?" Small, unsure, like a child clinging to the offer of comfort. Ryland explains it to him, he's not dead he's okay now. Simon almost doesnt believe it.

He thinks it again staring out the hull window, he seemed to be counting the stars. He hadn't ever seen so many before, he asks Ryland if theres always that many and Ryland explains the "birth" of stars to him, that there will always be stars like this.

And again when he's given painkillers, he was still hurting, aching from where his arm was pulled away. He had been trying to brave through it but you noticed, and offered him some medicine. He insisted he wasnt sick, you promised there was enough and he wasnt wasting any.

Its much the same with rations, upon discovering how little he was taking to eat and drink. You and Ryland assured him that it was okay, that the ship was stocked for 4 human crew members, he could eat.

He was sure he was dead when he watched Ryland burn himself and run to you, rocky ribbing him and all of you laughing. He watched how sure Ryland was that despite how small and preventable the injury was and how you called him stupid, that you would help him.

More sure when you let him crawl into bed with you, let him curl up to chase the night terrors away. Rubbing his back as he whimpered and mumbled unintelligible pleas for you not to leave.

And when Ryland comes to curl up in bed and finds his spot taken, he laughs, ruffles Simon's hair, and pushes another bed over to make space.

What is heaven if not being loved without being a burden.

[fanghusband]

a significant amount of my current problems would be solved by vampirism

[pearlsdiamondsandvodka]

Lestat reading fanfiction of himself post book release and commenting “I would not fucking say that”

[inthiseverymoment]

Silhouettes Emerging,

an Interview with Another Vampire,

Chronicling the Entrapment and Escape of The Vampire Isabelle de la Rue.

prologue

chapter i: “a wide-eyed melancholic, knowing and unknown”

chapter ii: “the promised land blurred awash in dancing footlights”

chapter iii: “ever-soaring melodies on unstable chords”

chapter iv: “dried cranberries and upswept guilt”

chapter v: “a catharsis always challenged, always shown”

chapter vi: “don’t you want a lark whose every blood cell sings your name?”

chapter vii: “the moth, frozen in amber”

chapter viii: “she flies with no fanfare but the voice of her own”

chapter ix: “i want you to come with me. i can barely choke the words.”

epilogue

another epilogue (s3)

[yesimwriting]

mmmm currently thinking about armand being supersuper gentle with bestie while she’s drunk and helping her get ready for bed and she gets all emotional bc he's so sweet with her😭😭😭

The blissful nothingness of true unconsciousness is replaced by the weight of general discomfort with no warning. The change is so sudden, it takes you a minute to even think about squinting your eyes open.

Your memories from the start of the night aren't exactly hazy, but they do feel a little distant. You remember leaving the penthouse with Armand and Louis, ordering drinks at some bar, stumbling home, and then...eventually you pestered Armand into making you another drink at home…and then at some point, you managed to get him to make you at least one more after that.

The specifics are a little more difficult for you to piece together. If the details felt more pressing, you might have minded the vague lapses, but you're too tired to worry about them right now. You woke up in Louis and Armand's bed. That means that nothing bad happened.

You let out a breath before shifting onto your side. The bedding that you're tangled in is soft against your skin, but the movement makes you realize that the sheets are adding to your discomfort. Everything is too warm, too suffocating.

Great. You fell asleep in a hoodie.

Ignoring the dull ache settling behind your temple, you force yourself to sit up. Before you can start trying to awkwardly tug the unnecessary layer of clothing off of your body, you realize that you're not alone.

Louis's sleeping next to you, his lips slightly parted in a way that's usually a sign of true sleep. You don't think Louis's capable of overheating in the middle of the night, and even if he was, you really doubt that he'd be mad at you for trying to use him as a living ice pack. Louis would also forgive you if you accidentally woke him up in the process.

Still, you probably shouldn't. You have no way of knowing how late it is, but the fact that Louis's the only vampire that's gone to bed probably means that the sun has just started rising. There's a good chance that Louis only fell asleep recently. Or maybe he's been sleeping next to you the entire time.

Wait..how long have you been asleep? Before you can dwell on the question for too long, a much more pressing issue pops into your head. Your stomach feels completely empty. And now that you're thinking about how hungry you are, you can't think about anything else.

Your movements feel sluggish as you push yourself to stand, but you manage to get up without waking Louis. You take your time wandering out into the hall.

You're always pleasantly surprised by the variety of snacks available in the penthouse. There are a few things that would be easy for you to just grab out of the pantry, but hangover food works best when you're smart about it. You need something dense, but not heavy.

Picking out the right food for a hangover isn't really a talent, but your sister was the best at it. Kara always knew when you needed someone to make you eat eggs and toast instead of plain cereal out of the box. Maybe Kara's actual talent was taking care of you.

You push against those thoughts as you step into the kitchen. You're not going to fall apart in the middle of the night while you're still a little drunk. You're going to have some toast, and then crawl back into bed with Louis.

Having an actual goal to work towards gives you a much needed sense of direction. You make it to the pantry as easily as you would have if you had been completely sober. You even manage to find a loaf of bread without any real issue, but that's where your luck ends.

The twist ties used to keep bread wrapped in plastic really don't need to be as tightly wound as they are. You bend the tie again, but it doesn't budge.

"You're supposed to be asleep."

You turn towards the sound of the voice instinctually, too out of it to properly flinch. "I'm hungry."

It's too dark in the kitchen for you to make out Armand's expression, but you can feel him glancing between you and the loaf of bread you're still holding onto.

He sighs. "You're drunk."

You blink at him. He's probably right, but you don't see what his point has to do with yours. "And hungry," then, as if to emphasize how much you mean it, you start trying to unpack the bread again. Struggling with something that should be simple only further agitates you. Your stomach is too empty, and the hoodie that you never took off is too suffocating. "And hot."

You set the bread down on the counter before reaching for the hem of your hoodie. You tug on the fabric, doing your best to pull it off of your arms and over your head.

"What are you doing?"

"Brain surgery."

Armand scoffs. You can hear him walking towards you, but you don't think about what he might be trying to do until you feel him adjust the bottom of your oversized t-shirt. He helps you finish pulling the hoodie over your head.

Even though you no longer need his help, he remains near you. It's still too dark for you to fully decipher his expression, but from this angle, you can assess some of his features. The slope of his jaw, the loose curls framing his face.

He's the first to break the silence, "better?" You nod blankly. "Go wait for me in the living room." You look between Armand and the bread on the counter. "I'll take care of the food."

The offer reminds you so much of your sister, you're nearly overwhelmed by it. You exhale in an attempt at forcing yourself to focus on the present. Armand is still standing incredibly close to you. There's something particularly comforting about having him within reach.

Armand extends an arm with no warning, his hand finding your shoulder. "Are you alright?"

You're not as good at masking your emotions as you should be. If you were sober, you'd care enough to focus on recovering but because you're not, you give into your impulses. You move closer towards him, your arms bending around his waist.

He hugs you back almost immediately. You can feel the coolness of his skin through the thin material of his shirt. Armand begins to trace patterns against your spine soothingly. "I always forget that you can't handle your alcohol."

You're so comfortable, a part of you doesn't even want to bother responding. "Maybe I just really like you."

"I'm sure," he mumbles, his tone dismissive. "Go sit, I'll bring you something to eat."

Right. You never actually made any toast. You're still hungry, but the thought of letting go of Armand is way too unappealing. "No," you say, more to yourself than to him, "I like it here."

He sighs, but makes no attempt at making you let go of him. Armand adjusts his hold on you slowly, his fingers dragging their way up your back before coming to rest against the side of your neck. "You are a little warm."

With no warning, he moves his arm away from your back. You don't think much about the change until you feel him pull one of your arms away from his side.

You lift your head enough to frown at him, but before you can start complaining, he places your hand beneath his shirt. The contact is so unexpected, you have to bite your tongue to keep from reacting. If Armand notices your uncertainty, he gives no indication of it, he just places his palm over yours, holding your hand against his lower ribs.

After a long moment, you remember how to relax. There's no reason for you to feel weird about this. Armand is only trying to help you feel better, and it's not like you've never touched his bare skin before.

Sometimes, if Armand's recently fed, he feels just as warm as the average person. You always enjoy being close to him, but there's something distinctly soothing about his supernatural coolness. His skin also feels a little softer to you than anyone else's, which is a trait that may have nothing to do with vampirism at all.

Carefully, you drag your thumb across his side. He inhales sharply before easing into the contact. "You feel nice."

He doesn't respond, he just lets you enjoy the feeling of his skin against yours. After a stretch of time that could have been any number of minutes, Armand decides to remind you that you wandered into the kitchen for a reason, "you need to eat something."

You let out a heavy sigh before pulling away from him. "Okay."

Armand takes his time letting go of you, his hand squeezing your shoulder before returning to his side. It takes you a second to realize that he's still holding onto your hoodie. "Do you want to go wait in the living room now?"

Even in your current state, with the lingering effects of both alcohol and drowsiness blending together impacting your ability to properly assess things, you can tell that Armand's trying to be patient with you. That doesn't mean that you're ready to leave his side, though.

When you take too long to answer, he lets out a low breath. "Fine. Stay here. Just don't touch anything capable of producing heat."

Armand takes a step away from you before pulling your hoodie over his head. It isn't rare for certain clothing items in the penthouse to become communal property, especially loungewear. Still, you did just drunkenly pass out and sleep in that hoodie for an unknown number of hours.

"If you want, I can get you a different sweatshirt from my room."

He shakes his head once. "This one is comfortable." You thought that he'd say that, but you're still glad you at least offered to do something helpful.

Armand’s focus shifts onto the loaf of bread. He undoes the twist tie with an ease that makes your earlier attempt at making toast even more embarrassing. Maybe he was right to take over.

A small part of you is surprised that he doesn't even need to look around to find the toaster. You guess you shouldn't be. After all, you're well aware of his affinity for modern day appliances. He knows more about blenders than anyone you've ever met.

After the toast pops out of the toaster, Armand places both slices on a plate. Instead of handing the plate to you, he sets it aside. Then, he opens up the fridge. He takes a small carton of eggs and a pint of milk out of the refrigerator. He glances at the ingredients before finding a pan to put on the stove.

"What are you doing?" You've already pieced together a pretty good idea of what Armand's intentions are, you're just not sure how to articulate what you really want to ask.

"Making eggs," he answers easily, "the amino acids and protein will help you recover."

You know that eggs are good hangover food. They were always a part of your sister's go to post-drinking-meals. But again, you weren't really trying to ask him about what he was doing. "And you...know how to do that?"

It's not a secret that Armand doesn't consume human food, but for whatever reason, you're usually hesitant about pointing it out. Maybe you don't want to actively remind him of the differences between the two of you.

He turns his head away from the stove so that he can look at you. Morning is starting now, with the first rays of sunlight just starting to bleed in through the windows. Only a fraction of that already diluted light has reached the kitchen, but it's enough for you to make out his expression. Armand's lips are pressed into a thin line.

"I've lived a long life," he finally says, "I know how to make eggs."

His response feels like a much appreciated attempt at humor. You let yourself smile slightly. "Sometimes I think you might know everything."

Armand picks an egg out of the carton. He taps it against the side of the pan, cracking the egg in half expertly. He then cracks another egg over the pan. The familiar sound of something liquid-y hitting the hot surface of a pan fills the room. "Not everything."

You take a step towards him. "Do you have any examples of the few questions that haven't been answered in your 514 years of existence?"

Instead of responding, he focuses on setting aside the egg shells. He opens up the bottle of milk before pouring a little onto the pan. The sizzling grows louder. He opens up the drawer closest to the stove, pulling out a spatula that he immediately starts using to break apart the eggs.

There isn't anything inherently wrong about his lack of response. He's focused on what he's making. However, an unexplained stretch of silence from Armand isn’t always as innocent as it seems.

“Armand?" No answer. "I was kidding. I know you don't know things. I've seen you try to rationalize the final season of The Summer I turned Pretty."

"Are you happy?" Woah. A loaded question for someone who is still recovering from multiple shots of vodka and at least two martinis.

"Uh," you blink, "Yeah. I mean, my head starting to hurt, but that's fair...all things considered."

He looks between you and the pan. "I didn't mean it as a general question."

Oh. He's asking if you're happy in general. "Yeah." It should be harder to know whether or not you mean the answer. Happiness shouldn't come easily to you yet, it hasn't been long enough since Kara. But you are. Or at the very least, you're as close to happy as you're capable of being. Everything feels so much better when you're with Louis and Armand. "I'm always happy when I visit you guys."

Armand doesn't look at you, he just focuses on moving the now finished eggs onto your plate. His expression remains blank, but you can tell that he's breaking down every part of your response.

"If you're so happy," he pauses as he reaches for the dial he used to turn on the burner, "I don't understand why you always insist on leaving."

Ugh. There is no way Armand is trying to start the 'you don't need to leave yet' conversation while you're half asleep and still a little drunk. "I'm still staying for a few more weeks."

He sets the plate down on the counter instead of directly handing it to you. "That's not what I meant."

Great. This isn't a conversation about your visit ending, it's about you moving in with them...which is an even more unfair thing to bring up right now. "Oh," an incredibly weak start, "did Louis ask you to bring this up?"

A long beat of silence, and then a hesitant, "no."

An unjustifiable warmth begins to inch its way up your neck. "I love the idea of living with you and Louis, it just doesn't seem like the most practical thing for everyone." It's a response that you've given him before.

"There are a lot of artists in Dubai," his usual argument, "and you can fly to New York or other places as needed."

It's not like you've never thought about accepting their offer. You probably spend more time with Armand and Louis than you do alone, and when you are without them, the only thing you want is to see them again. But it's not that simple. You've always lived in New York City, every part of your life that isn't them is there.

It would also be a lot to live that far from your family. Could you be one of those people that only visits their relatives every Christmas at most? That might actually kill your mother.

"You would still be able to see your mother. She could even stay here, if you'd like." Your thoughts must be so incredibly transparent right now.

You reach for the silverware drawer. "Mind reading while I'm drunk is so unfair." He doesn't even have the decency to try to look ashamed. You pull a fork our of the drawer before pushing it shut. "It's nice of you guys to offer, but you know you don't really want me to live with you."

Armand scoffs. "Don't tell me what I want--"

"I'm not telling you anything, I'm just being realistic," you defend, "we're always arguing, imagine never getting a break from that."

He flinches, his entire body becoming so rigid it takes everything in you to keep from immediately apologizing. "Do you want a break?"

"No." You're surprised by how much you mean it. Bickering with Armand never exhausts you, and honestly, even if it did, you don't think it would be enough to make you not want to be around him. "Do you?"

He lifts his gaze just enough to meet yours. "No."

You let his response wash over you. Knowing that Armand doesn't get tired of you is more assuring than it should be. "Okay," you say it as a way of testing out breaking the silence, "then...we're good, right?"

He nods slowly.

"I'm still kind of out of it," you start carefully, "can we talk about this later?"

Again, his only response is a subtle nod. It's not the best reaction, but it's okay enough for you to finally feel comfortable bringing your fork to your plate.

You take a bite of the eggs. Of course they're perfect. "How are you good at everything?"

Armand keeps his gaze focused on the stove. "Years of practice."

Okay. An answer that isn't overwhelmingly serious. You can work with that. "What have you been up to since I fell asleep?"

"Washing martini glasses took up a significant amount of my time," he starts, "after that I fed with Louis, we spent some time in the living room before Louis joined you. I logged into our shared Minecraft world, I found a new village."

That's exciting. "Really?"

He nods, this time the motion less stiff. "I marked the location. I can show you tomorrow."

You smile at that. "Cool." You eat some more of your eggs. "That reminds me, that one artist you said you liked--the one that does the cool glasswork--is doing a private exhibition next week. My agent sent me tickets." You don't look up from your plate. "We could go, if you want."

When he takes too long to answer, you force yourself to glance at him. He's already looking at you. "I'd like that."

The response eases you slightly. "Okay. I'll email her back later today."

Things settle after that. Neither of you speak again, but this the kind of quiet that you like sharing with Armand. There's no subtle tension corrupting the silence, the two of you are just existing.

The newfound peace makes it easier for you to focus on the food in front of you. When you start working on your first piece of toast, Armand returns to the fridge. He puts away the remaining eggs and milk before pulling out the water filtering pitcher. He fills a glass with water before handing it to you.

"Thanks." You didn't realize how thirsty you were until you were given a reason to think about water. You down about half of the glass in one go.

The combination of water and food helps you feel a lot more stable. You're still not completely sober, but you're not as groggy as you were earlier. After you finish eating, you carry your plate and used glass to the sink.

Armand sighs when he hears you turn on the sink. "You don't have to do that."

You give him a pointed look. This is a conversation that you've had before. While you do appreciate the penthouse staff, you do your best to not add to their workload. "I don't mind." He frowns. "Give me the pan."

It takes him a second to actually listen to you. Eventually, Armand relents and removes the pan from the stove. "At least let me do it."

"No."

He sets the pan down next to the sink. "Do you have to be difficult about everything?"

You finish rinsing off your plate. He takes it from you once your finished, placing it in the dishwasher in a way that only feels partially passive aggressive. "Apparently."

You rinse off your fork, and then, after you're sure that the pan is no longer hot enough to burn you, you rinse that off as well. Armand puts different items into the dishwasher as you finish.

"Happy now?"

You shut off the sink. "Thrilled."

"Well, at least there's that," his voice is heavy with sarcasm. "Are you ready to go back to bed?"

You do still feel a little sleepy, but you're not exhausted. At least, not so exhausted that the thought of going to bed is more appealing than staying near Armand. "Are you going to bed?"

He lets out a tired breath. "Do you want me to?"

You beam. "Yes." Without giving Armand a chance to respond, you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the side of his arm.

Instead of complaining about the way that you've latched onto him, he just places a hand against your back. "Okay, then let's go."

Hm. To go to bed, you'll have to stop hugging him. Which is unfortunate...but you guess you'll live. You squeeze him one more time before straightening enough to pull away from him slightly. "Fine."

Armand drags his hand up your back and onto your shoulder, anchoring you in place. "Can I try something?"

That's suspicious. "Ominous." You don't think he's ever asked you if it was okay to 'try something'. "Okay."

With that, he bends, one of his arms pressing itself more firmly against your back and the other coming beneath your knees. He picks you up with no other warning.

You gasp, your arms instinctually bending around his neck so that you can feel a little more stable. "Armand."

"What?" He asks casually, as if there's nothing abnormal about this.

You blink, a little too surprised to do anything else. There was no effort, no strain...he just picked you up the way you'd pick up a few grocery bags.

Vampire strength is one of the first vampiric abilities you were told about. It was one of the many cliche supernatural abilities you asked Louis about the night you first discussed what he was. You've also had Louis carry you around bridal style before. Usually, at the end of a long night after you've gone out in shoes that are a little too uncomfortable.

So, objectively, Armand's ability to support your weight shouldn't be shocking, and yet you can't stop thinking about it.

He adjusts his hold on you, his thumb dragging itself against the side of your arm. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," the response feels much too hollow. You swallow once, forcing yourself to focus on the present. "Just--some warning would have been nice."

Armand starts walking towards his bedroom. "I did ask."

He seems much too proud of the technicality. You roll your eyes, pushing away thoughts that are much too centered around Armand's ability to pick you up like you weigh nothing. "Barely."

"Fine," he starts, "Darling, can I please carry you to bed?"

You try scowling at him, but you're not sure the look comes off as annoyed as you want it to. "If you insist."

Armand still seems much too smug as he leans towards you, pressing his lips against your temple. The longer he carries you, the more comfortable the feeling becomes. You relax, letting yourself rest your head against his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

"Mhm," you mumble, "comfortable."

You're finally reaching the bedroom. You lift your head slightly when you see the outline of Louis's figure beneath the comforter. A part of you wishes that he was awake so that you could talk to him about this. You could try not-so-subtly nudging him awake, but he's already asked you to stop waking him up just so that you can gush about Armand.

You wonder if Armand's as comfortable as you are. Louis has sworn that you're not difficult to carry, but you know he wouldn't tell you if you actually were.

"You're frowning." Armand really does notice everything.

"I'm not like..." There's no relaxed way to ask this. "Heavy, am I?"

"No, Bichette," he answers easily, "you're not heavy."

He could be lying to you, but something about his tone of voice makes you think he's telling the truth. Besides, vampire strength is fueled by the supernatural. Realistically, it's probably safe to assume that--

The world is thrown off of its access. One second, you're holding onto him, and the second you're hitting the mattress. Armand just threw you onto the bed. "See?"

You should be mad, or at least a little concerned about how easy that was for him. You're not. Armand didn't let go of you until you were directly above the bed, but you don't even care about that.

"Yeah," you say blankly, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, "you proved your point."

You're not sure what kind of reaction he was looking for, but something about the way the corner of his mouth tugs itself upwards tells you that he's pleased about the way that things worked out. "I always do."

You part your lips, but before you're forced to respond, you hear a tired groan followed by something next to you shifting. Louis.

It's instinctual to turn your head to look at him, "you're awake."

"No," Louis mumbles, "I'm not."

Instead of listening to him, you roll onto your side so that you can be closer to him. You rest your chin against his stomach. "Armand carried me here from the kitchen."

He squints his eyes open, "I carried you for six blocks last week, I don't remember you being this enthusiastic."

You frown, "Yes, I was. I talked about how wonderful and strong you are all night." If there's one thing Louis has no right to say, it's that you don't take every opportunity to talk about how amazing he is.

Louis hums dismissively. He can be so dramatic sometimes. You tug on his pajama shirt, adjusting the hem to expose his skin. You press a kiss against his bare side. "You know I love you."

He's trying to hold onto his imaginary hurt, but you can tell that he's struggling not to smile. "I love you, too."

You kiss the spot just beneath his ribs again before moving onto your back. Armand's still standing near the side of the bed. He's looking between you and Louis. You extend an arm, reaching out in his general direction. "Bed."

He sighs, as if something about you asking him to do what he already wanted to do has deeply inconvenienced him. He pulls your hoodie off over his head, and then he does the same thing with his shirt.

You drop your gaze towards the comforter. You're usually pretty okay with Armand and Louis walking around shirtless. They're guys, it isn't a big deal to them. However, that doesn't mean you know what to do when they start casually undressing.

Armand turns away from the bed and starts walking towards his closet. He's probably going to store your hoodie with his things, which is fine. It'll eventually cycle its way back to you.

"He doesn't take his shirt off half as much when you're not here," Louis says, his voice a little too amused.

You scoff. "Shut up."

"I'm serious," he starts, "you show up, and suddenly, he can't get through a night with his shirt on."

You hate the warmth inching its way up your neck. Louis likes teasing you and Armand. It doesn't mean anything. "I'm sure."

Armand returns from their shared closet, "what are you two talking about?"

"Why? Is your super hearing not good enough?" He narrows his eyes at you. "We're talking about you being obsessed with me."

Armand stiffens briefly stiffens, but he recovers so quickly, you might not have noticed the pause if you had been any less focused on his reaction.

"You've caught me." He starts walking towards you. Before you know it, he's standing directly in front of the bed, "I have to have you." He's leaning over you in an instant, his mouth finding the side of your neck.

Armand's being incredibly persistent, his lips brushing against your skin and his teeth occasionally dragging against your collarbone. You have to remind yourself to breathe. You shift back on instinct, but he's more than ready to occupy the additional space. He moves onto the bed without letting go of you.

"Armand," you try weakly, "come on."

"I can't help it," he whispers the syllables against your neck, "I'm obsessed with you."

You place a hand on his shoulder. The move lacks any real conviction. "Yeah, I believe you."

You can feel him grin against your skin. He places a final kiss against your collarbone before pulling away from you just enough to look you in the eye. "As long as you believe me."

"You are so annoying," the words are terribly soft.

He has the audacity to openly smile at that. Armand leans towards you, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips before moving off of you. He relaxes against his pillow.

At some point during your exchange with Armand, Louis must have sat up because you feel him shift towards you. He places a kiss against the side of your neck, the contact overwhelmingly sentimental. "Louis."

"I missed you," you can tell that he means it.

Louis lays down again without saying anything else. He must be really tired. You and Armand need to be considerate about Louis's sleep.

You place a hand against his arm, dragging your nails against his inner arm. "Sorry for waking you up."

"It's okay," you can tell that he means it. "What have you guys been up to?"

"I made her something to eat," Armand starts answering Louis's question before you get the chance to, "and we talked about the moving thing again."

Your head snaps towards Armand. "Traitor."

Conversations about you moving in with them are difficult enough when it's just Armand, but they're infinitely worse when Louis gets involved. The subject always makes him so sad.

"Yes, and the conclusion was that we wouldn't talk about it anymore until I'm sober."

Louis looks up at you, his eyebrows drawing together in that way that makes him seem like a puppy preparing to be kicked. "I don't get why it needs to be a conversation at all."

"It's complicated," you say carefully, "I mean, like, in theory it makes sense, but logistically, there are other things to think about."

Louis turns his arm so that he can hold your hand. "Like what?"

"Like..." Ugh. They're really going to make you say it. "You might get tired of me always being around."

Louis scrunches up his face in disbelief. "What?"

"I am like the first few nights of a vacation, the nights where you're committed to having a really good time," you explain, "which are good, but by the end of the trip, you want to rest before you need to start packing up your suitcase. If I lived with you guys, you'd never get any rest days, and you'd eventually resent the thing keeping you from getting to the airport on time."

"Airport?" He quickly pushes himself to sit up. "What are you talking about? I would be with you all the time if you'd let me."

"You only feel that way because I don't." You're not sure if this conversation would be easier if you were a little more drunk or a little more sober. You squeeze your hands together on your lap. "I am a lot, and I've kind of tricked you guys into thinking I'm not."

The silence that follows makes your skin crawl. Armand is the first to break it, "you can't possibly think that highly of yourself."

You turn your head towards him. "What?"

"Do you really think you could trick two immortal beings that have existed for hundreds of years when it comes to anything, especially when it comes to who you are?" He briefly presses his lips together. "Or that there's anything you could ever do to change how I--" He cuts himself off. "There is nothing you could do to make either of us not want you.

Oh. "And you--you guys don't think that you'd miss having personal space?" This is awkward for a completely different reason. "Like, as a couple?"

Louis presses an elbow into the mattress, pushing himself to sit up slightly, "are you really asking about that?"

You can feel yourself flush. You know that Louis and Armand are an active couple. It's never been an issue. You're don't care about what two consenting adults choose to do together, and you understand boundaries. But there's more to being in a long term relationship than having enough privacy to sleep together.

"Shut up, that's not how I meant it." A part of you is grateful for the change in subject. Even if it's this. "You guys probably want to do things as just a couple, and I want to make sure that you guys feel like you have enough space."

Louis sits up enough to look directly at Armand, "I'm comfortable with the amount of space we have, are you?"

Armand looks at Louis, "I'm comfortable."

You roll your eyes at the exchange. "I'm too tired for you guys to be this annoying." They can continue to talk about this if they want, but you're going to bed. You move to lie down, Louis moves over a little to make it easier for you to do so. "I'm going to sleep."

Armand's quick to follow you. He lays his head on your chest. "You never gave us an answer."

You briefly consider giving him a 'no' just because he asked again after you said you were going to sleep. "Maybe," you settle on, "ask me again after I wake up."

He shifts, pressing a kiss against the side of your neck before relaxing again. "I'll take it."

After a second, Louis lies down as well. "Ma Chérie, you know I love you, right? Not some idealized version of you, but the actual you."

Deep down, past personal insecurity, you believe him. If anyone you've ever met actually loves all of you, it's Louis. "I know, it's just hard to remember that sometimes, I guess."

Armand lets out a breath that you can feel against your collarbone, "you are one of the most amiable people I've ever met. If you aren't deserving of love, I don't know who is."

You bring your hand to the back of Armand's head. You drag your nails through his hair carefully. "I think you're even more deserving," the words are quiet, the structure of the syllables lost to your drowsiness.

He doesn't respond. You fall asleep before you can overthink the silence.

-----

bestie not realizing that she's also now a part of their marriage 😭

[sirxlla]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒉𝒍𝒊𝒂

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

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: fluff

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕: them finding out you're a singer

𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: loustat x human female reader, italics are actions and thoughts

[ 𝑹𝑬𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑺 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑵 ]

-𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒕-

"Just one touch, one touch, one touch too much..." Trailing off, singing as he plays a few notes, trying his hardest to get this song to come together. yet another night at the piano trying to formulate this song. "Ugh, no. Awful." It's for you, not that he'd say that to you that, nor to Louis, but it's rather obvious the way he pours himself into everything he writes.

Louis is where he normally is lying on the sofa reading a book with his legs crossed, his fingers moving over the freyed edges of a blood he's read a hundred times over.

You pressed your face against the cool wood of the threshold as you get home, listening to him even though he's asked you not to. "You know I can hear you, Ma Ange. (My Angel) I told you, it's not ready."

"You're struggling. I can help."

"I assure you, I don't think so. What do you know of writing music?"

"I don't know? I sing at a speakeasy almost nightly, but how would that make me qualified?" Smirking and heading upstairs to take a warm shower after such a long night, still only in your coat and the very scandelously short fringe dress you have on.

In an instant, you could've heard a single drop of blood drip down onto the wood floor; it's that quiet. Lestat's pale blue eyes turned to Louis with confusion, only to be mirrored by Louis's same expression. "She's been...How did we not notice this?"

"I mean, we did promise not to pry into her thoughts when we agreed on a human companion." Uncrossing his legs, sitting up, putting a bookmark on the page and closes it. He gets up with the intent of snooping in the coat you just put on the rack, hoping to see where you've been.

"Yes, but if I knew she was a singer, I would've agreed to having her around much quicker. Maybe I wouldn't have seen her like a pet for so long." Looking at his lyrics with even more annoyance as he tries yet again to get the words he's looking for onto the page. He hears her singing quietly in the shower, something he notices before but didn't pay much attention to; neither of them had.

"Our girl's been singing at the Dahlia." Louis whistles before speaking as he holds the speakeasy's card between his pointer and middle finger; Lestat's eyes almost pop out of his head. No one gets into the Dahlia without an invite; you have to know someone who knows someone who knows someone.

"Even if it's true, that place is more than it's fair share of pretentious." Lestat pretends not to let it affect him, but he is truly proud of you and a little jealous. It means you aren't just a good singer but a wonderful performer too.

"Do you think she'd let us come watch her sing? We can make it into...ya know a night?" Louis asks, a bit excited, with a smile. He knows how Lestat loves a show, and they definitely put on shows at the Dahlia, plus it's easier to moonlight as a couple of normal straight men when they go out with you in public.

"I suppose we could ask her; I am dying to for a proper night out. I can only handle the side eyes for so long."

"Les, Baby, can you get me a towel? I forgot to put a new one in here." You shout from the bathroom upstairs, steam rolling out of the crack in the door.

"I can talk to her about it today; it's my turn to have her in my coffin anyway." Lestat claims before heading to the washroom to grab you a fresh towel, even as Louis gets onto him.

"You just had her in there yesterday!"

"Yes, but you had her in there two nights in a row a couple of days ago."

"Only because you hurt her feelings!"

Your soft wet feet pad down the stairs as they both start to argue louder and louder, your fingers leaving a small trail of water on the railing. "Both of you, enough. I'll sleep in my own bed if you two don't stop bickering." Reaching out to grab the towel Lestat has in his hand, glancing over to see the card in Louis's hand.

"Don't look so surprised, I sing in the shower all the time. I'll see if I can't get you guys in if you're interested and yes, I've been evesdropping." Gently toweling your body off infront of them so the floor doesn't get anymore soaked it and it's nothing they haven't seen before. "...and Louis, rules are rules regardless of the reasoning, Mon Amor. Fair is fair." You kiss him softly to try to keep them both civil before heading upstairs to get dressed, both of them shamelessly staring at your ass as you ascend the stairs.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph..." Lestat's eyes follow you even further, like a fish on a hook. A smile on his face like he's won the lottery. "I told you, Louis."

-> 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

[crinkledcrow]

Les beaux malades

Lestat x fem!reader

Spoilers for TVL | 18+ MDNI

Summary: You'd been working backstage for 'The Vampire Lestat' for a while now. Nothing big, just cleaning up after everyone, helping out stage technicians, this and that. An ordinary gopher, until one night, regional vampires got their hands on you.

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.

Lestat eventually peeled you off, "Enough, ma chère. We'll get you some more, I promise. But first you need to wash up or else we'll have a hard time even leaving this bus without questioning."

[fawningangelle]

IWTV Masterlist by Dollie

Armand

Putting Eyeliner on Armand

Fledgling Fluff [requested]

Armand's Companion Fluff [requested]

Madame Mistress (COMPLETED) 1 2 3 4 5

Point of No Return

Ainsi, Cela Continue: A Sequel to Madame Mistress (ONGOING SERIES) 1 2 3 4

Baby’s First Kill

Serve to Live, Live to Serve PROLOGUE

Lestat

Madame Mistress (COMPLETED) 1 2 3 4 5

Ainsi, Cela Continue: A Sequel to Madame Mistress (ONGOING SERIES) 1 2 3 4

Putting Eyeliner on Lestat [coming soon]

False Idol [coming soon]

Louis

Ainsi, Cela Continue: A Sequel to Madame Mistress (ONGOING SERIES) 1 2 3 4

Random Scenario involving Louis's weird ass feeding habits

Serve to Live, Live to Serve PROLOGUE

On Top [coming soon]

Daniel

Baby’s First Kill

[theeraggedygirl]

Masterlist

♡ Lestat de Lioncourt + Louis de Pointe du Lac ♡

I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight

lestat de lioncourt x oc x louis de pointe du lac

When your Aunt contacted you on behalf of her old friend Daniel Molloy for a job, you thought it could be a nice chance to get back on the road - after all, concerts had been your life for years. What you didn't expect was finding yourself at the mercy of every whim of a certain rockstar: The Vampire Lestat. Hopefully you weren't going to get lost along the way, caught up in the drama that seemed to find him at every corner - but luck was never on your side. -- "Do you consider yourself undeserving to be loved, Lestat?"

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII new!

---

Metamorphosis

lestat de lioncourt x louis de pointe du lac

A collection of (mostly) angsty one-shots as famous couples from myths, literature and popular stories.

Story I: Apollo and Daphne: with my voice so hollow

Story II: Moulin Rouge!AU Christian and Satine Part I

---

Three Summer Days As Butterflies

lestat de lioncourt x louis de pointe du lac

Louis is Student President at NOIAL, New Orleans Institute of Art and Literature. He is a lover of strict rules and likes to maintain a specific order, especially among the new transferred students. Lestat de Lioncourt isn't exactly a troublemaker, but he still creates quite a commotion everywhere he goes. To Louis is just another pain in the ass. What nobody knows, though, is that Louis has a secret. During the day is drowning himself in his studies, but at night he works at the Azalea Host Club where he's known as The Ice Prince. It would be really unfortunate for his reputation, if anyone found out.

Prologue: Pandora Opening

Chapter I: Secret Keeper new!

♡ Armand ♡

Kintsugi

armand x reader

Little moments between reader and Armand as he helps you rediscover sex even as you struggle with vaginismus

i: breach

ii: breathe

iii: surrender

iv: opening new! ♡ Requests/Imagines/Headcanons ♡

Armand is a very attentive partner Armand taking care of you after a night out (fluff) Armand as service top giving you multiple orgasms (Smut) Aftercare with Armand after an intense session (Smut) Jealous and mean Dom!Armand (Smut)

[m0chisenpai]

little poppet

˚｡⋆ louis de pointe du lac x black fem!journalist!reader x armand

˚｡⋆ lestat de lioncourt x black fem!journalist!reader

in which you find yourself on the radar of am up and coming rock star who, p.s, was semi-married to your current lover and ran circles on your second.

random thoughts of journalist!reader and lestat i have so many thoughts after watching trailers and recent clips for season 3 and they are STRICTLY platonic (for now).

journalist series: part 1, part 2, part 3

It was a quiet evening, the last months have been so. The three of them allow the domesticity to be a blanket over the interview that was held a few months prior. For a moment, their little journalist plays the role of the loving...girlfriend? You wear their bites on the wrist of your arm. That is enough to symbolize something between the three of you.

But that sits in the back of your mind now, the sunset bathes you in its warm afternoon glow. A discarded book sits on your lap, its spine cracked, penned in thoughts along the edges. Just before your eyes can fully shut a hearty laugh jolts you out of your incoming nap.

You grumble, now you definitely ca't sleep.

The remnants of sleep pull you upward out of your cocoon when the laugh echoes off the walls again. At first you stomp to chide at whoever decided to disturb your sleep. You push the book into the pile of markers and pens, and forgo your slippers to follow the boisterous laughter. It's not from your room, not from the dinning room.

And then you hear it, a whisper in the tree room followed by another laugh your petty anger fizzles out and turns into suspicion. Who is Louis laughing with like that? And a second voice, french accented echoing off the walls. Everything in her bones tells her to ignore it, they give her privacy therefore she ought to return the favor.

But a stubbornness in her causes her feet to slowly inch towards the wall where she presses her back to the wall.

He sounds coy, but not in the way he is with her. His tone reminds her of how her mother and father quipped, petty, but beneath playful jabs a gentle old love is clear. Something forged on years spent with one another. A love language between seasoned lovers. And that makes her heart thump, in anxiety? No She takes a few deep breaths, because if it beats any faster he'll know she's listening.

He's allowed to speak with whomever he wishes.

But who is he laughing with like that if now you or Armand?

We can't be jealous.

He murmurs some more, in broken french that makes her heart flutter even in the midst of the inner debate she halts. Right now it tries to decipher who this mystery person is. So she clears her throat, loud enough for him to be alerted that she is near and awake.

This plan could go smoothly, or ass up. Either way, we're finding out.

We could just ask-

Hell no.

She drapes the blanket more around her shoulders, pattering on purpose slowly into the room.The knuckle of her pointer finger rubs beneath her eyes in faux sleep, and Louis falls for it in an instant. He rushes the mystery caller off the tablet soon as she makes her to the steps, taking them slowly one at the time into his awaiting arms that encircle her waist beneath her blanket concoon His hands settle on the skin of her back, exposed by the loose sleep shirt.

"Did I wake you my love?"

She grumbles, "no, I was looking for you."

He huffs now pulling her fully atop his lap.

"Is this you askin' or telling me to join you for your nap?"

"Neither, but..." she trails off slowly rubbing where his heart should be, tracing absent-minded patterns atop the v-necked sweater he wears.

"You want your tea?" He fills in the gap easily. She smiles, sleepily pecking his lips once.

"And my book? Thought we could finish it together?"

He tilts his head in faux thought, "hmm gonna need a much better kiss."

She can't fight the genuine smile that as she leans forward, slowly and languidly gracing those lips with a proper kis. Louis takes his time, allow his eyes to flutter shut and his hand to cup her jaw and pull her deeper.

"Be a moment cher," he whispers against her lips. And when she opens her eyes she sits where he once did. She works fast. The password? Her date of birth and in an instant she finds the video calling app where the recent number sits, no name, but the number she quickly makes work of typing into her phone.

Just when the final number is entered she hears his feet, and she quickly closes the tablet pushing it away to its previous spot. She almost feels guilty when he carefully walks toward her, the wooden tray holding a pot of freshly brewed hibiscus blend Armand gifted, with her book and pens which he arranges in front of her.

But even as he reads by her side, allowing her head to settle atop his shoulder, she hears the laughter echoing in the back of her head and one mission sits front and center: find the one who could make him feel that much joy.

Having worked with Daniel for so long, she finds herself to have picked up on his silent philosophy of hearing all sides of the story. Hence why during the suns peak, she goes to work.

She makes sure to go to a cafe, far from the penthouse without the use of the driver assigned by her lovers. When she trusts that she is a comfortable enough distance she makes the call, and a french droll enters her ear.

"Louis?," it inquires. She should hang up. but curiosity is why she chose the career she is in. The voice coos his name once more. So she straightens her spine.

"No, and shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Who is this?" Any playfulness or kindness dropped in an instant replaced with a razor sharp tone.

"A..reporter," he huffs.

"Hm, and how exactly little mouse did you get this number? You do know I could report you to the proper authorities?"

"No, no please I just...I worked, work for Daniel Molloy and I just have a question, a few."

The voice pauses. "Ahhh, you are the little reporter Louis mentioned."

This gets her attention and she leans both her elbows forward on the table. "He mentioned me?"

"Mhm, he speaks highly of you, apart from his darling little bottomless pit, I can stomach to hear him speak of you. He tells me of your...project. You have my congratulations."

"I'm..flattered?'

"You're welcome. Now I am sure you did not call with the intention of a simple conversation, mouse." it's clear in his tone he is not asking and she immediately straightens up.

"No, I have some questions. Some things I would like to clear up away from...certain ears." Her drink arrives, a treat beside and the worker giving her a polite smile before walking away. She nervously taps her keyboard. "I heard you, on the phone with him. I was there during the interview. And, I think your commentary and memories would add onto my project."

Silence.

Had she pushed to far? Her hands nerovusly reach to fiddle witht eh straw in her drink. Then his voice breaks her mental spiral.

"Very well, mouse, but there are a few terms of my own I have if we are to do this. Hopefully Louis has not been teaching you any french these days, you'll find a better tutor in Armand, do not tell him of this call, poppet."

You finally exhale, "you have my word sir."

"Please, Lestat is fine mouse."

[onlyasteelmancanbealover]

alien teeth

clark kent x fem!chubby!reader

original ask <3 | ao3

summary: clark doesn’t like his teeth, but you do. 

word count: 2.6k

contains: fluff & suggestive themes. friends to lovers!!!!! clark and reader share insecurities (his teeth, her weight). reader knows clark is an alien. lots of banter/humor, some sassy and shy clark. unaddressed tension. first kiss, first confession tropes. biting kink if you squint. slipped an x files mention in there #iwanttobelieve. *no use of y/n

a/n: Holy fucking yes thank you anon.

—————————— ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊——————————

“What are you doing?”

Clark peered down at you with a bemused and crinkled brow. He felt the unusual tingle of your pointer finger pressing on his canine. 

With your head in his lap, your arm was extended all the way out to reach his mouth. It was not as if you were hiding your curiosity. You pressed on the tooth, feeling the smooth curve and the tiny point that undoubtedly slotted into the lower set below like a puzzle piece when he smiled. The tooth was strong, it did not budge– not that it should, but you were just observing. Cataloguing. 

“I’m feeling your teeth.”

Clark snickered softly and swatted your hand away, making you pout. “I can see that. I’m asking why.”

“You asked what.”

“Don’t be a smartaleck.”

You grumbled softly and let him hoist you up by the hand, and you sat beside him on the couch in his loft, eyes shamelessly redirecting to his mouth again. “I like your teeth.”

Clark’s cheeks flooded with color as you stared him down. He knew very well your predilection for bluntness– being your best friend had helped him build an immunity. But every now and then, your straightforward mouth made him clam up. You didn’t seem to care when the things you said sounded almost… flirtatious. If he could even suggest such a thing. You? Flirt with him? Never. In his dreams, maybe.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tilted your head, smiling softly. “What, is it so unbelievable someone could find your teeth cute?”

Clark felt a drip of saliva catch the back of his throat, and he coughed softly, flustered beyond his means. “I mean, a little. They’re not exactly straight– wait, cute?”

You shrugged, laughing softly. Your attention drew back to the television for a moment, where Fox Mulder was sticking his finger in some unknown substance on television while Dana Scully judged him from afar. A glimmer appeared in your eyes, and you recited in the best Mulder-voice you could muster: “I think it’s remotely plausible that someone might think your teeth are hot.”

Clark didn’t choke on spit this time. He just choked. “Huh?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder, pointing at the television. “Oh, come on! That’s his line!”

“You’ve seen this show way more than I have, how am I supposed to remember?”

“In the first season, remember? When they’re talking about how the Lone Gunmen liked Scully, and he says that same thing to her? It was a famous clip! Seriously?”

Clark shook his head, offering you the same expression he did each time you mentioned a random factoid from some show he never cared enough to watch– two raised eyebrows and a playful purse of the lips, suggesting either a statement of You lost me or Only you would know that. It was almost as infuriating as it was cute. 

“Not only is this show awesome, but I watch it because you are a stupid alien, and it gives me great advice on how to deal with you!”

“They never actually see the aliens on this show, dummy, and I’m not green with big eyes.”

“I’m just saying, it might do you some good to pay attention to–”

“Good lord! All I’m saying is I don’t remember the part you’re talking about!”

“You’ve definitely seen it before.”

“I’m sure I have. Now, going back–”

“Clark, there’s nothing wrong with your teeth!”

The farmboy chuckled and gave a different look now (an Are you serious?) and crossed his arms. “I never had braces. They’re all crooked. Like, they all tilt inward– it’s weird! I’ve always hated them.”

A tiny twinge tugged at your heartstrings. How could Clark Kent hate a thing about himself? Surely he knows who he is and what he looks like. The man has been your closest relationship for too long. All you saw when you looked at him was gorgeous.

“That’s so sad,” you frowned.

Clark laughed awkwardly and scooped up the popcorn bowl from the table, placing it in your lap. He picked at a few kernels. “It’s not supposed to be.”

“Yeah, but it is,” you angled closer again, and Clark had to stabilize the bowl before you capsized the contents all over the couch. 

“Woah! Easy.”

“Your teeth are one of my favorite things about you. How could you hate them?”

Clark crunched cluelessly. “What, I’m supposed to magically cure an insecurity just because you like it?”

“Yes!” you ordered, brushing a piece of hair from your eyes. 

“It doesn’t work like that and you know it. How many times have I told you that you’re pretty exactly as you are, but you still insist that you’re fat?”

A mauve tide rushed your cheeks, and you looked away. “That’s different.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” you mumbled, putting the popcorn in his lap so you could tug your blanket higher.

A slow guilt began to bleed in Clark’s gut. He was just trying to make a point, but this was not the direction it was supposed to take. “Hey…”

“Your insecurity is like– it makes you special. Unique. Nobody else can smile like you can. It’s not like that for me. It doesn’t make me special, it makes me… unlikeable.”

Clark didn’t think twice about tossing the popcorn bowl back onto the table and inching closer, collecting your hands in his. The skin was rough from his farm chores. Lucky for your set of chubby fingers, he could still enclose his palms over them like a glove. “That’s not true, bunny. You’re not unlikable.”

“Well, I’ve never been asked out, so I think that makes me pretty unlikable.”

“You’ve never been asked out because I’m always looming behind you like a statue,” Clark chuckled, coaxing your gaze towards him again with a finger under your chin. “Guys aren’t really into potential girlfriends who come with a guard dog attached.”

Your cheeks burned as you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “I never asked you to do that.”

“It’s not necessarily something I can help. I just… don’t like anybody for you. They’re all stupid. And mean.”

“Real mature,” your lips curled upwards a smidge. 

“You know what I mean. Nobody deserves you,” he explained. “You knock every other girl out of the park. You know you do.”

Inside your chest, your heart was beating rapidly against your ribs. Sometimes you wondered if he knew how inescapable his clutches on you were. Not only was there no getting over him, but you had lost all will to. All you had ever known was what it felt like to be in love with Clark, and it didn’t help when he grew up to be the exact kind of guy you always dreamed he would. It was textbook torture, sitting here with his thoughtful hands stroking your wrist and his gleaming eyes boring into you like magical Kryptonian ice crystals. Stupid alien face– it was so fucking handsome. 

You huffed softly, letting go of the reflexive breath that sucked your stomach in. It was an uncontrollable habit. You saw Clark smiling at you, and for all the embarrassment he made you feel, you chose to pick up the ball. Game on.

“I think your teeth are adorable,” you said. “Y’know, how sharp they are and the way they curve in like that. I love them.”

Clark blinked at you, trapped by the word love. Love, love, love, that was all his heart and ears and lungs and brain were hearing. Love, love, love, she loves my teeth, I love her. 

His hands were still wrapped around your wrists, but you lifted one and smoothed a finger beneath his top row again. You mapped each ridge, collecting a bit of wetness as the pad grazed the thin edges. His breath was warm on your finger. It smelled like popcorn.

“Thanks,” you murmured. 

“For what?”

“Saying those nice things about me.”

Clark nodded softly, smoothing his hand up your arm. He had no idea what he was doing. You could both be affectionate here and there, but not so decisively or slowly. Not so methodically. “They’re true things.”

“You really think I’m pretty?” You blurted. Well, not a blurt. A soft blurt. A low one. A bleat, maybe. Nervous as a sheep.

Clark did not think. He only nodded. 

You brushed your finger over his chin, and with him so close, you could see the way a few of his lashes entwined with each other, clinging together in anticipation. You envied their job. You wish you could brush his eyes, keep them clean, shield them from the sun. They got to live on his face all day. What you wouldn’t give. 

“You really like my teeth?” He asked.

You nodded, too, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I love your teeth. I love a lot of things about you.”

Clark could not help the compulsion. “Like what?”

You would’ve preferred to be more eloquent, but your mind was leaving you at the moment. Clark’s hand was now resting at your side, tucked between the soft rolls of your back and squeezing carefully, as if he was curious about the springiness of the flesh and had been wondering what it felt like for a while. So you rambled.

“Your hair. It sort of flips behind your ears, and I always found that cute. Your nose, too, when you get annoyed with me it flares. Sometimes when you smile really big your hairline moves up, that’s a good one– oh, and when I really piss you off, you kind of do this thing where you tilt your head like a dog hearing a whistle, and every time you do it I can't help but laugh because it’s just so funny! Like that one time we got burgers, and I swore I didn’t want a milkshake so you only got one, but then I begged for a sip and you wanted to kill me? You did it then, and I just wanted to kiss you, it was that cute.”

As you trailed off suddenly, hearing your words echoing back and flushing a medically concerning shade of red, Clark’s ears rang. He felt like he was stuffed full of cotton. I just wanted to kiss you, it was that cute. Love, love, love, love, love…

“Yeah?” was the best he could do. It was breathless and full of disbelief, but he at least said it aloud.

You winced a bit. “...Yes?”

Clark nodded slowly, and then a bit harshly, just trying to be sure he heard you right. He had just heard a few words that, in another universe, he would pay money to hear. No, in this universe. In any universe. He squeezed your side again, and when no response came to him, he just stared at you, brainless and lost. 

You swallowed thickly and reached out again, figuring that if this was the final chance, you wanted to touch those teeth one last time. Your thumb tugged his bottom lip down and you poked your pointer on the tip of his lower canine. What was left of Clark’s dignity leaked out then, and he made the swift decision to kiss your knuckle. And then your wrist. And then your cheek, and your chin, until he was hovering over your mouth, breathing that popcorn breath against your tongue, which would have been disgusting were it not your very best friend Clark Kent who you had been having undisclosed dreams about since age eleven. 

“I like a lot of things about you too, bunny.”

“Like what?” you whispered, not moving an inch. 

“Like the way your nose twitches when you’re nervous. That's why I call you bunny, did I ever tell you that?”

Your eyebrow furrowed, and for a split second, you forgot what was actually happening in lieu of a new image. “It does?”

“Yeah. You just did it just now.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. I saw you.”

“I think I would know if I–”

Clark’s hand slipped under the hem of your t-shirt to feel the burning skin beneath, and the welcome touch had you shutting up in surprise. Your surrendering face exhibited the sign of a tiny little twitch on the right side of your nose, which Clark kissed instantly, as if pinning it down. “Right there.”

“That… isn’t fair,” you wheezed, heart hammering.

“What isn’t fair is that you’re not kissing me,” he whispered against your lips. “I’m waiting, you know.”

Part of you wanted to smack him for teasing at a time like this, but the rest of you was bubbling over with the overwhelming, all-consuming sense of victory. You met him in the space of an inch, pressing your lips to his open mouth, feeling for the very first time what it was like to kiss the love of your life. 

Clark’s teeth were sharp and warm under your tongue. He hauled you into his lap and laughed as your eager hands roamed his face and neck, and it seemed that you tilted your head left to right without any penchant for rhythm or pace, simply smushing yourself against him in a desperate attempt to swallow him whole. He used said teeth to nip at your mouth, making you shiver, and you performed with absolutely zero decorum, swiping your tongue over his canines, tangling it with his own, sneaking your fingers into his hair to tug him closer and threaten suffocation. Every time he squeezed your hips or pressed his palms to your tummy, it spurred you further. It was the best kiss he’d ever had. 

He didn’t give up until the action exhausted you. Having kissed yourself stupid until all you could manage was leaning your forehead against his and panting softly, you began nosing him like a kitten, pressing closer and closer into the hard lines of his body in some pseudo-hug disguised as a selfish need to feel him against you. He laughed sweetly and tucked his fingers into your hair, feeling the strands and tugging, scratching the curve of your cranium.

“If I told you how long I’ve wanted to kiss you, you might kill me,” he teased. 

“Bet it's not as long as I’ve been waiting for you to come around.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, come around? I’ve been in love with you since we were kids!” He pulled back, giving you an incredulous look.

You grinned mischievously and kissed his lips again, much less ambitious this time. You distracted him with, “Bunny, huh? All because of my nose?”

Clark tossed you down on the couch and crawled over you with a big, toothy grin. “Well, that and your body. Bunnies are chubby.”

You flushed profusely. “Clark!”

“What? I love it. I love you.”

As he laid on top of you and began to kiss you into the mattress, you fought against the desire to give right in, hands curling behind his ears. “I was being serious, I’m really insecure about that…” But as he hitched your knee over his hip and sealed your lips shut with a series of hungry smooches and a pair of wandering hands, your protests lost their necessity. 

As he made his way down the curve of your neck, he mumbled, “You like my teeth enough to let me bite you, bunny girl? Won’t hurt you… just a little bite, maybe…”

“Jesus Christ,” you squeaked. The word no suddenly dissipated into thin air, as foreign as a new language, and as ridiculous an answer as anything. “Yes.” Then, you added for good measure, “It won’t turn me into an alien, will it?”

Clark peeked up at you, joy painted all over his face. “You should be so lucky.”