guys i need to write lestat x reader fluff to fight off the demons
The low, careless whistle, the metallic jangle of rings hitting the marble counter, the soft, theatrical sigh of a man who has just devoured a stadium whole.
"Mon Dieu," he calls from the ensuite, voice echoing over running water, "they would have let me sing until the sun rose—if the sun dared." A laugh, wicked and bright. "Did you hear them, ma belle? They were starving."
You adjust the air conditioning with a small click. Cool air spills across the bedroom, ghosting over your bare thighs, lifting the hem of your sleep bralette. "You like when they starve," you answer evenly. "It makes you feel adored."
"Adored?" He scoffs softly. A smear of black eyeliner streaks the white towel as he wipes his face in the mirror. "No. It makes me feel—" He pauses. The faucet shuts off. "—necessary."
You don’t answer at first. You smooth the duvet, fingers grazing. "How was your voice?"
A door swings open. He appears in the threshold—hair loose now, a riot of gold falling past his shoulders, skin still faintly glittered with stage dust. Only his boxers remain, low on his hips. He looks younger without the paint. Younger and older all at once. "Magnifique," he says, spreading his arms as if you are another audience to conquer. "I gave them ‘Mortel Amour’ three times. They screamed my name like a prayer." He steps closer. "Say it like they do."
You arch a brow. "Lestat."
"Non, non." He prowls forward. "Like this—" He grips the bedpost dramatically. "Le-staaaat." He dissolves into laughter, that bright, sharp peal that never quite loses its edge.
You cannot help the small smile that curves your mouth. "You’re ridiculous."
"I am divine," he corrects, climbing onto the mattress on his knees. The bed dips beneath his weight. "And you love me for it."
He gasps theatrically, collapsing backward onto the pillows. "Cruelle! You wound me." His accent thickens when he’s tired—consonants soft, vowels spilling like wine. "Come here."
You remain where you are, leaning against the headboard, legs folded beneath you. "Tell me about the last song."
He groans into the mattress. "You are impossible." But he rolls onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. "It was… warm. I could feel their hearts beating—thousands of them. Thump, thump, thump." He presses his palm to his own chest. "Like prey as percussion."
"Careful," you murmur. "You’ll frighten your fans if you call them that."
He flashes his teeth. "They like being frightened. They come for it." A beat. Softer now. "But I did not take from them."
"Non." He shakes his head, curls slipping across his brow. "I wanted to come home." His gaze lifts to you then—blue, luminous even in the dim light. "To you."
The words settle between you like something fragile.
You shift, letting your feet brush his hip. "You’re exhausted."
"I am immortal," he says loftily.
"You’re exhausted," you repeat.
He huffs and rolls onto his back. "Fine. Perhaps a little." He stares at the ceiling. "When I was on stage tonight, I thought—" He stops himself, jaw tightening.
You lean forward. "What?"
"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just that it is loud there. So loud. And then I come here and it is… quiet." His eyes flick to yours. "You are quiet."
"It is a confession." He sits up abruptly, crawling toward you across the bed with exaggerated slowness. "You calm me. It is very inconvenient."
A soft laugh escapes you. "Inconvenient?"
"Oui." He reaches you at last, sliding his hands around your waist, tugging you down until you fall back against the pillows with a surprised breath. "Because I prefer chaos."
He grins, wicked and boyish. "Perhaps." His fingers trail up your sides, light and playful. "You adjusted the air. You always do that. As if I might overheat."
"You burn too bright," you reply.
He narrows his eyes. "Ancient creature." His thumb brushes the curve of your rib. "You pretend you are stone, but you are softer than anyone I have known."
"Don’t romanticise me," you say, though your hand slips into his hair.
He melts under the touch, lashes fluttering for a fleeting second before he catches himself. "Romanticise? I invented romance." A beat. "But I did not invent you."
He lunges suddenly, wrestling you fully onto the mattress. You gasp as he buries his face against your stomach, laughing into your skin. "Tu es ma guérisseuse," he murmurs. "My healer."
"You’re dramatic after concerts," you accuse, fingers threading through his hair as he wriggles closer.
"I am dramatic always." He bites lightly at your hip—not enough to break skin, just enough to tease.
"Lestat." You try to sound stern, but it fractures into laughter when he begins to tickle your sides. "Stop—"
"Make me." He shifts, attempting to pin your wrists above your head.
You twist beneath him, centuries of strength coiling through you like silk over steel. With a swift movement, you roll him onto his back instead. He lets out a startled yelp as you straddle him, thighs bracketing his hips, hands pressing his wrists into the mattress.
For a moment, there is only breath.
"Traîtresse," he whispers, delighted.
"Jamais." His smile softens. "I have always known you could destroy me."
You lean down until your hair falls around his face like a curtain. "And yet you stay."
The word is barely audible.
You study him like this—pinned beneath you, gold hair fanned out, chest rising slowly. Without the stage lights he seems almost translucent. An angel caught in rebellion. Your prince. Your disaster.
"What are you thinking?" he asks quietly.
"That you are beautiful," you say before you can stop yourself.
He blinks, caught off guard. "Beautiful?" A faint crease forms between his brows. "I am terrifying."
He swallows. "Most who loved me found the terror first."
You release one of his wrists, tracing your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I am not most."
He sits up slowly, your bodies sliding closer until your knees rest on either side of him and his hands come to your waist of their own accord. The position shifts—intimate, balanced. Forehead to forehead.
"Dis-moi," he murmurs. "Tell me why you do it. Why you endure me."
"Because you let me see you," you answer. "Not the rockstar. Not the monster."
"Yes," you agree softly. "But you are also… lonely."
He inhales sharply, as if the word has teeth.
"You are," you insist gently. "And you don’t have to be when you’re here."
Silence unfurls. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just there.
His hands tighten at your hips. "When I am on stage," he says slowly, "I feel them loving me. But it is a love that consumes. They want the spectacle. The danger. They want to be devoured." He looks up at you, eyes luminous. "You do not want to consume me."
"You want to…" He trails off, searching.
"Heal you. Love you. Protect you," you finish.
He exhales a laugh that is almost a sob. "Mon ange noir." My dark angel.
You lower your mouth to his. The kiss is soft at first—testing, tasting. He responds immediately, fingers sliding up your spine, pulling you closer until your chests press together. The kiss deepens—not frantic, not hungry, but reverent. As if he is memorising you.
When you part, his lips brush yours again, smaller, quieter. "Encore," he whispers.
"Toujours." He smiles against your mouth.
You kiss him again. Slow. Deliberate. His hands roam your back, not demanding, just holding. As if anchoring himself.
When he finally rests his forehead against yours once more, his voice is softer than you have ever heard it. "Stay," he says.
"I’m not going anywhere."
You hesitate only long enough to make it meaningful. "I promise."
He closes his eyes. For a heartbeat—two—he simply breathes.
Then, lighter again, because he cannot help himself, he nudges your nose with his. "You pinned me," he muses. "This will not stand."
"Non." His grin returns, sharp and playful. "Tomorrow, I reclaim my throne."
"You are in my dreams," he counters.
You laugh softly, brushing his hair back from his face. "Go to sleep, rockstar."
"Sing to me," he murmurs, already easing back onto the pillows, tugging you down with him so you lie half atop his chest.
"You’ve sung enough for one night."
"Then speak." His fingers draw idle patterns along your bare arm. "Tell me something ancient."
You rest your chin against him, listening to the steady rhythm beneath your ear. "Once," you begin quietly, "there was a prince who believed he had to shine to be loved."
He snorts faintly. "He sounds insufferable."
"He was," you agree. "But someone loved him in the dark."
"And he did not have to shine at all."
For once, he has no clever reply.
Only this—his arms tightening around you, holding you as if the quiet might steal him away.
"Bonne nuit," he whispers into your hair.
Outside, the city sleeps.
Inside, he does too—cradled not by applause, not by hunger, but by something gentler. Something without teeth.
And you watch over him, as you always have, as you always will.
