✶ ⠀ what being lestat de lioncourt’s lover is like :
1910’s lestat x mortal fem!reader ⟢ masterlist 18+mdni
starting off strong, he’s a drama king. he pouts when you leave, sighs like he’s auditioning for an opera, and insists he’ll “wither away without your company” as if he isn’t immortal. he’ll even clutch his chest when you tease him.
he stares at you when you talk. he simply just admires the view of the woman he loves. your mere existence is the most intoxicating and beautiful distraction for him. sometimes you’ll catch onto him staring and go, “lestat, are you listening?” he’ll just simply reply, “of course, mon cher” with a soft grin on his face as he looks at you like you hung the moon — obviously he wasn’t listening.
he never raises his voice when he speaks to you. he’s always soft with his tone. he’s too reverent of you to ever be loud. with every word he speaks, there’s love in his voice for you. the quieter he gets, the more serious he is. even when he’s angry, he talks to you like he’s afraid the sound might break you. his control is proof of him trying to be good.
he spoils you rotten. to him, he has a beautiful, whiny doll he created. he gifts you with luxuries a girl could only dream about, holds you close to him every night, and makes sure you have everything your heart desires. even when you complain about something small, he just leans down to rub your cheek and go, “mais vraiment, ma belle. what is it that you need?” — half teasing, half serious. his world revolves around you and it stops when you’re inconvenienced.
he loves your attention. he needs it. a glance your way can make him grin like he just discovered the sun. when you’re quiet, he paces, he worries. it’s a tragedy for him — a true injustice of you ignoring him. he’ll lean close when you finally speak, his voice soft but insistent, “parlez moi, ma belle, je meurs sans vous,” because again, he’s a drama king.
his apologies are even dramatic. expect flowers, an apology letter, and a gift of something he heard you think about. he can’t live knowing that you’re angry, so you never go to sleep that way.
he’s very affectionate. he needs your touch and lives to feel the softness of your skin. he’s always kissing you or his hands are always resting somewhere — the small of your back or your thigh. he needs to feel you. he’ll have you curled in his lap as he hums to you, reads, writes, talks, or just so he can hold you. he’s possessive in a way.
the jealous type. not the loud kind, but the kind that lingers in the room. his smiles turn tighter, his tone a little too polite, his eyes too focused. he doesn’t make a scene, but you feel it. the temperature drops a few degrees. the silence stretches. when you finally notice, he’ll just say, “does he make you laugh like I do?” — again, he’s a drama king.
protective. he’d kill for you, yes, but also he’s always there when you’re out. he petitions that he goes with you when you say no. “i just don’t want you out there alone, ma petite,” he’d say as he’d grab your waist, trying to be persuasive — he is. he’s clingy, he just won’t admit it. he calls it his love and protection for you.
his heart flutters when you tell him he can drink from you. to him, it’s an act of devotion and reverence when he does it to you.
his favorite position is missionary. but not in a boring way. he likes to watch you squirm under him and moan his name as he gives your body what it wants. he’ll wrap your legs around him and pound into you until you’re too dumb to remember anything but, “lestat.” he loves to see your jaw drop and stay there with your eyes rolling back as he makes you come undone for him over and over again.
he’s a romantic. he sets the mood with perfection. lestat was always the romantic type. he’d make a trail of roses to your shared bed, light candles, and make sure your favorite melodies are playing. once he’d get you in bed, he’d pamper you with kisses all over and treat your body like it was the most precious thing he’s ever laid his hands on.
sweet talker (is that a surprise?) he doesn’t stop talking either. he could be whispering the sweetest words in your ear as he pounds into you relentlessly from whatever position he put you in.
he moans in your ear when he’s inside you to make sure you know what you’re doing to him. sometimes he can’t help it, sometimes it’s to undo you even more. it’s his way of praising you.
“you feel so good, mon cher.”
“one more, hm?”
“taking me so pretty — so wet for me.”
he bottoms out and stays there sometimes just to watch you pout impatiently underneath him with your soft whines. “why so impatient, ma petite? you know i’m eventually going to give you what you want,” he’d tease.
he eats you out with devotion and precision. he does it to please you, of course, but he can’t help but to get turned on as well from the way you react to him.
he’s dominant. however, he lives for when you ride him. he craves it more than blood sometimes. he gets really vocal when you ride.
he can be mean, of course. sometimes he fucks his frustration right into you until you see stars. he’ll whisper the meanest words to you, yet he’ll still hold your body with care. he knows what you can take, and he knows how to push your limits. “so pathetic, ma belle. you’re already crying under me.” he loves to see you dazed with desire and teary-eyed from his cock drilling in and out of you. you’re his own personal art.
he’d last forever if he wanted to, he just can’t always bring himself to do so when you look so pretty while you’re all spent and spread open for him after having multiple orgasms that night simply because he couldn’t stop chasing the high of seeing you make those pretty faces and sounds that you made from the first one. eventually, he’ll get all in his head and boom, he’s coating your walls with his warm, thick cum — moaning your name as he did so.