starting off just sitting in front of him, sitting on your calves, your knees in the center of his spread legs. you’re completely dressed down, wearing nothing but your night gown, one of the straps hanging off of your shoulder. but then he pulls you closer with a demanding and firm hand curled around your waist. he’s older than you and so much stronger, but even when he uses not even a quarter of his strength you’re letting yourself be maneuvered like a doll. which, isn’t that what you are? a doll of sorts for mr. lioncourt? hell, he did dress you up in this, a frivolous nightgown that was mature enough but still feminine and adorable. you both know he told you to wear this just so he could have the pleasure, and the privilege, of being the one to take it off of you. which will surely happen in due time.
for now, you’re straddling his waist with your gown bunched around your spread thighs. lestat keeps one hand on your waist at all times, sometimes flattening his palm along the center of your back. this hand is a leash, not like you’d ever dream of leaving lestat. not when he’s treating you like this, at least. his other hand cups your cheek, holding you much more delicately. up here, he treats you truly like a doll, like a prized possession that he’ll never find elsewhere. sometimes, he tells you that’s what you are to him. he calls you his beautiful creation. he tilts your face this way and that in the light, he draws your fangs from your mouth, he marvels at the color of your eyes. you’re his creation. which means you’re his to play with and control.
the palm at your back curls into a fist and he twists the expensive fabric of your nightgown with it, pulling the hem up until your backside is bare to the air around you both and your center is pressing into the fabric of his pants. he brings that same hand down and swipes two fingers through your slit. he hums into your mouth at his findings, and then he presses the pads of his fingers into that spot that he introduced you to. a spot no man before him ever bothered to find.
when he pulls away from your lips, he continues to hold your cheek in his hand. he looks into your eyes for a second, not saying anything. his lips are shining just as his eyes are. he takes a sharp nail and drags it along your face, tracing your features.
“you are perfect,” he tells you. then he tilts his head, and pulls you back to him.
as you kiss him back you wonder how long you’ll appear perfect in his eyes.
dad bf lestat ,, controlling/possessive behavior ,, dom/sub dynamics ,, period sex ,, reader calls lestat dad
Lestat de Lioncourt is nothing if not selfish.
He is like a child in that way. Petulant when someone has something he has already claimed, even if it is just a taste. even if he has only claimed the object of his affection deep within the depths of his mind, unbeknownst to anyone other than himself.
But how could anyone not know that you are his? It would take a fool to not recognize that Lestat has claimed you. A fool or someone daringly uncaring. In that case, Lestat would have to do what he would have to do. And he is prepared to do it.
Because you are his.
Lestat watches you from across the balcony. He knows you can feel him staring. You can always feel his carnivorous stares. Yet, you're pretending. You're ignoring him.
Frustration starts to bubble in lestat's core, but he readjusts his position, beginning to lazily and confidently lounge in his seat, and he waits.
When you make him wait, Lestat enjoys it. He enjoys your mortal display of power. It's all you have—you both know who here has the real power.
Lestat watches you entertain hopeful suitors. He watches their eyes linger on your form like you're nothing but a piece of meat. He muses on the irony as he remembers the feeling of his teeth puncturing your flesh.
He uses his time in the corner to think about how sweet your blood tastes at the tip of his tongue, think about how sweeter the blood that comes from forcibly stretching your cunt around his cock tastes. He thinks about how pretty you look beneath him and how pretty you look on his arm. He thinks about how obedient you are, and how well he has you trained.
Then, amidst Lestat’s (admittedly longing) thinking, there it is. A look that you send his way. Just one glance, no longer than a second, but it's all Lestat needs. He knows what it is—an invitation.
He stands and calmly makes his way to you. He’s not in a rush, he takes his time with each and every stride. As soon as he stands next to you, he easily lays his hand on your lower back and allows the warmth emitting from beneath your many layers of obnoxious clothing to melt in his hand and ignite the flame within him.
He's going to tear you apart when you get home.
If these foul boys (never men) do not stop looking at you like you're theirs, then he'll tear you up right here with them watching. Just to tear them apart, too, soon after, except not nearly in the same manner.
"Gentlemen," Lestat smoothly greets. It’s not as much of a greeting as it is a dismissal, though. He doesn’t say anything else for a moment, at least not for you to hear. But he knows you recognize the look in the boys’ eyes. He feels your body stiffen next to him and he knows you’re going to try and feebly chastise him for threatening these boys within the perverted caverns of their mind.
That’s none of your business, though, and Lestat is quick to make sure you know that when he escorts you out of the building.
You’re nagging in his ear, childish ramblings about how he refuses to let you have a life of your own, and how you’re an adult who can make her own decisions. Lestat listens and listens as he guides you down the streets, a hand on your elbow as he leads you home.
“You’re right, ma cherie. I’ll do better next time. Okay?” It’s a lie, a baldfaced, absolute lie that Lestat always feeds you.
Typically, it disarms you just enough to keep Lestat calm. And tonight, he expects the same. He levels you with a sweet look, blue eyes almost placating enough to work. Lestat thinks it works, until your nostrils flare and you’re squinting.
“It isn’t gonna work on me this time, Lestat! You’re so controlling and you hover too much and you act like you’re my father or something–”
Lestat doesn’t let you finish. There’s no point in letting you finish, not when you’re engaging in ridiculous ramblings.
It’s a good thing you’re inside now. Lestat has just what he needs to back you against the wall and tower over your cowarding figure.
“You are so pretty when you get angry. Do you know that?” The sharpened edge of his pointer finger nail lightly traces the edge of your jaw. “You get this little furrow between your eyebrows and your nostrils start to flare. It’s … cute, really. You're behaving as if you have any say. Any power.”
You’re becoming subdued without any influence from Lestat’s mind at all. He notices the way your gaze softens, the way your heartbeat slows, the way the blood rushes just where Lestat wants it.
“Undress,” he tells you.
You do what you can on your own, and when it comes to loosening the more structured elements of your garments, you turn around and let Lestat do the work until you’re standing in nothing but your undergarments.
He takes a moment to start at you—to admire you. He chose you because of your beauty, plain and simple. You are gorgeous. You are divine. You are a source of entertainment for Lestat, yes, but you are a beautiful one.
He doesn’t wait any longer. He sinks to his knees right in the foyer.
“Lestat, wait, I’m—“
“You’re bleeding, I know,” he purrs as he lifts up your slip dress.
You still don’t seem convinced and annoyance floods Lestat’s system. Why would you deprive him of what he owned any longer?
“You think I do not know that? I could smell you all night.” And he could. “It is my favorite part of you. It’s why I won’t turn you, no matter how much you beg and plead. You always sound prettier when you’re begging for me to fuck you, though.”
Lestat sinks to his knees as he speaks to you, his eyes lifted to watch you the entire time. His fingertips are dug into the waistband of your bloomers, and as he goes down, so do your undergarments. He keeps his eyes trained on the red puddle at the center of them. If he were anymore debased, he would suck the blood clean from the cotton fabric. But why would he humiliate himself like that when he has the source right in front of him?
Lestat doesn’t waste anymore time. He throws your leg over his shoulder, digs his fingers into your ass cheeks for stability, and plunges his tongue as far into you as it could go.
He’s not in it to pleasure you, not yet at least. That will come when you’re writhing about and begging for him to focus on you for a change. But right now, he’s focusing completely on himself. Lestat didn’t realize how hungry he was until he got a lick of you.
The tang that sits at the tip of his tongue is addicting. It’s what drives him to clean you up. He doesn’t stop until there’s barely anymore of your blood seeping out of your cunt.
He’d been deaf to your sounds up until that point. He has absolutely no idea what noises you’d been making, if any. He truly had tunnel vision for the first time in forever. He must admit, it felt heavenly to be blind to everything else in the world at that moment.
But now, he’s back, and you’re babbling pleas up there. He hears the name you call him, the syllables easily slipping past your mouth.
“Please, Dad, please give it to me. I gave you what you wanted, right? Please. I’ll be good, I swear.” He’d never corrected you from the first time you called him that–Dad. He was expecting something different, master or sir, perhaps, but that three letter word just gave Lestat such a rush that he started to like it. It grew on him. Now, when you call him that, Lestat grins, stands to his feet, and easily throws you over his shoulder.
i like to think that in public you get mistaken for lestat's daughter bc of the way you two act (even if you don't look like him) when someone makes a comment like "what a beautiful daughter you've got Mr. Lioncourt" and you go to correct them but without missing a beat, he puts an arm around you and agrees with them. calls you his daughter again for emphasis bc he knows it's getting a reaction from you down there
you can tell what the man means by his comment almost instantly. the lioncourt name is one that has power to it. power and money and fear among some. so when the man peers down the sharp bridge of his nose at you, eyes you up and down, and compliments your beauty to lestat through up turned lips, you're desperate to clarify your real relation.
lestat pulls you closer into his side and you think he's going to do it for you. you tuck your head into his shoulder, already starting to smile as you imagine the look on the mans face when lestat speaks.
"yes, my daughter," lestat says, and you jolt.
you try to pull away, but his nails dig into the layers of clothes you wear and he keeps you right where he wants you. he looks down at you, blond hair bouncing. he widens his eyes, his lips pressed together tightly but still pulled up at the corners.
"isn't she beautiful?" he asks the man, still staring right at you. "she takes after her father in that regard, non?"
your thighs brush together beneath your dress and you bite your tongue. he'd never been so blatant about the odd relationship the two of you have. he'd never called you his daughter to anyone else, save for louis, and the effects are immediate.
lestat leans down and seals the deal with a kiss on the forehead, a completely paternal action that shouldn't make your skin burn like it does. you stay tucked into his side while he finishes the conversation with the man who's name you have yet to get. you can feel his eyes on you, but it doesn't bother you anymore. you can't think about anything other than the strong and protective loop of lestat's arm around your waist and the way he sounded as he called you his daughter.
you hope he'll call you that again tonight when your face is pressed into expensive sheets the two of you love to ruin.
dad bf lestat evasively tells louis what y'all have been up to and louis immediate response is disgust. he's berating lestat for laying with "his own daughter" and he's watching a sick, self assured smirk spread across lestat's lips. louis is truly disgusted, but there's that sick sense of jealousy settling in him as well.
#thinking abt dad!lestat smacking your ass in front of Louis and he sits there like 🫥😧
louis' face twists up and he looks right at lestat, saying something like "was that necessary?". meanwhile you're just going about your night with a slight dopey smile on your face.
