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LESTAT

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Believe me, it is not a question of whether I wish to have it.

The question is whether you wish it to only be feeding, or something more.

if you wish for more, lestat, you have my consent.
but it is not a requirement. if you are hungry, i will feed you, and i will enjoy it.

I do not always hunger at the rate other vampires do. But I would be a fool to dismiss your offer.

My room is occupied, but I can certainly come to yours, or we can find another suitable space. A private drawing room, where we can lock the door to prevent interruption.

[ he very nearly suggests otherworld, for all it has to offer — and a part of him is curious to see how she fares in public — but the more selfish side wants to reserve this moment for them alone. ]

my room is empty, and we will not be disturbed.
i will leave my door unlocked for you, lestat. it will always be so.

[ After taking a moment to verify that Louis is settled, and in part so he doesn’t continue to hover over his fledgling any more than is necessary, Lestat takes his leave, following the simplest and most straightforward path between his room and Lauralae’s. It’s easier for him to sense her mind, now, using that impression to make his way to her even if he doesn’t probe too deeply into her thoughts.

He’s dressed for an informal meeting, a shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned and a pair of linen trousers, in addition to bare feet — certainly nothing resembling their last encounter.

Even once he reaches her door, and having the knowledge that it’s already unlocked, he still raps lightly against it before trying the knob, announcing his presence before letting himself in. ]

Good evening, sweetheart. [ A warm, quiet smile, and the slightest incline of his head, before he strides over to her. His first impulse would be to collect one of her hands in his own and lift it up so that he can skim his mouth over her knuckles, but he pauses to verify that she has gloves on — even if he’s still curious about the pain her bare fingers are capable of inflicting. ] The hour is not too late for you? Or are you more of a night owl, like myself?

[ Lauralae is, herself, dressed down a little; a simple black dress, long enough that it might disguise itself as a nightgown, but leaving her neckline bare enough that it might be an easy target, should that be where Lestat feels the calling to feel. She knows that Armand had bitten her on her arm, above her curse, but she is not sure where the blood is most delicious, in her own limited experience.

There is a touch of nerves, of wonder about her as she steps up to meet him, as she lets her dark eyes gaze upon him. She has been around the other vampires enough to feel at ease with them immediately, but Lestat is someone she is still allowing herself to know, to offer herself to, blood and body both, should he long for it. It's an easy gift to give, when she enjoys the scent of copper and iron and metal in the air as her own life is drunk from her.

She would take to being a vampire perhaps too well, she thinks, were she not already a creature of such danger and primal ferocity.

Gloves in place, she reaches for his hand, offering her own spindly fingers for him to take as he please. ]

I am accustomed to the night. It is easier to hunt, and explore without threat.

[ Lips curl - sweetheart, he calls her, and it makes something inside of her flood with longing - and she steps closer, tilting to watch him. ]

Do you need rest? You may unburden yourself, here, if it pleases you to.

[ With her delicate hand resting in his own, Lestat’s impulse changes; instead of skimming a kiss over Lauralae’s knuckles, he carefully turns her arm, bending lower so that he can press one to the inside of her wrist instead. Even with the barrier her gloves provide, he can still hear the rhythm of her pulse, the blood rushing beneath the skin, and feel it as well, where his mouth briefly lingers. His fangs are sharp enough to puncture through fabric, but he’s not feeling the sort of reckless that would drive him to do such a thing now.

She references the hunt, almost off-handedly, and Lestat’s lips tug into a smirk; with her hand still in his, he gently leads her over to the nearest chair, one large enough to fit both of them easily if they squeeze, but gestures to his thigh instead as he sits, a wordless invitation for her to establish a perch on it. ]

You must tell me of your hunts sometime, and what you enjoy chasing most.

[ At her inquiry, his smile turns a bit fainter, especially once he leans back in recline against the seat. ]

I fear, dear one, that I have allowed rest to claim me for too long lately. In truth, I have never been more awake. [ He uses two fingers to gently sweep her dark hair back over her shoulder, exposing the pale curve of her neck. ] But I have also… vastly neglected my appetite.

[ Growing accustomed to playing herself on top of other people is not where she had imagined her time here leading her, but it does mean it is much easier for her to settle on Lestat's legs, to tuck herself against him as she makes herself comfortable. He is much taller than she is - so many people here are, so that is no surprise - but it means she fits quite neatly against him, her expression warm despite the lack of a smile.

Perching is easy, comfortable, and it means she can move her body to straddle him if she so desires, she can reach for him in moments that might come to seek out more of him, to lean in and let herself be devoured. ]

Perhaps it might be a story to lull you to rest, later.

[ Her hair is pushed away, and she can feel the thrill of a promise run through her, making her eyes flicker closed. Her skin is so pale, she knows it, and she tilts her head to him, baring herself so completely for his attention and feasting. ]

Do not neglect it now. I am at your service.

And do you mean to soothe me to sleep in your arms?

[ The odds of that are low, given that Lestat does not make a habit of sleeping around just anyone — considering how deep vampires rest, so still and unmoving that they appear to be dead, and completely ignorant of even the slightest sound around them until they awaken, it takes quite a great deal of trust for him to go to coffin, even metaphorically speaking, while in the presence of another.

As selfless as her offer is, he won't let the moment pass without ensuring she enjoys herself in the process; other vampires might bite her throat with no preamble, nothing to sweeten the inevitable pain, but Lestat wants to enjoy taking the measure of her first, refamiliarizing himself with her irresistible scent. When he leans forward, bracing a hand at the small of her back, he nuzzles into her neck first, dragging lower lip over the soft, flawless canvas of her skin, drawing her fragrance in with a breath that isn't fully required. ]

Not at the expense of your neglect.

[ His hand falls to her waist, then cradles her hips, fingers ruching the dark drape of her dress as he pulls her closer, until she's leaning into his chest. When he lightly thumbs at her chin, it's so that he can bring their faces back to level, his eyes visibly darkening as his gaze rakes over her. ]

Kiss me, first.

Rest, if not sleep, if the nights are so comforting for you.

[ Lauralae is aware enough of the lore of vampires in her own realm, recognises that some things weaken them as much as others strengthen them, but she cannot comment on what is good for Lestat and what is bad. Making an assumption that this world is alike her own is not a mistake she is planning to make, not when her own experiences have been so strange and twisted.

She had not known herself as well in her own world as she knows herself here. She had not tasted other people, in any of the ways she now had, and she had been concerned with the spilling of blood in a way that isn't from a hunt. Now she craves it, longs for it, wants nothing more than to share the sensation with those willing to indulge and entertain her.

The way Lestat touches her, the way he draws her close, strength contained in his body as he holds her and moves her to his own desires. It's easy, then, to lean up, to tilt into him, to let her lips settle into something like a pout, almost as if she's being teased by being denied his fangs breaking in her skin.

Maybe she is. Perhaps this is a tease, this is a torment. ]

It is not neglect to give me what I want.

[ All the same, one arm wraps around his neck, her little body pushing up, so that her mouth could press against his and kiss him, harder than she might have otherwise, wanting so much from him. ]

Sometimes, nights have been my only companion.

[ It is not so now, not since Louis has returned to him, but Lestat will not stake any definitive claim over his fledgling, even if their hearts have rediscovered their former synchronization. Things will be different now, between them, and he certainly can't begrudge Louis his indulgences, or who he chooses to pursue them with, just as he's sure Louis holds no objections to him spending time in the company of others. Perhaps they will revive the previous insistence of always returning to each other's beds, but for the moment, things are too new, too tenuous, for him to have a definitive sense of what they are to one another.

At present, his thoughts are currently pulled to the adorable pout his denial elicits, and he carefully presses the sharpened point of his thumbnail into that prominent lower lip, plying it down slightly. If he pushes a bit too hard into the soft flesh, hard enough for a tiny bead of blood to well up, his mouth will be there to slant across hers when she closes the remaining distance between them, tongue flicking to collect that fleeting impression of her taste.

A groan, low and resounding from deep within his chest — partly from her blood, but also from how Lauralae wraps herself around him, pushing closer. He sucks on her lip for any remnant he can get before his saliva successfully closes up the small wound, his other hand dragging over her thigh, coaxing her into a kneeling straddle across his lap. ]

Sweet girl.

[ Lestat breaks the kiss to mouth over her slender jawline, nudging her chin up with his own nose, leaving several more kisses over the flutter of her pulse down to the hollow of her throat. He's gentle in how he winds a grip into her hair, clutching close to the scalp so he doesn't create any tangles, but he suspects she might want to be handled like this, with care and yet clear intention. His fingers tighten into a fist, and he slowly guides her head back, exposing the line of her neck — and then he moves, almost impossibly fast, sinking his fangs into her, a quick piercing that then retreats so he can wrap his lips over the twin punctures and suck, slow and rhythmic, in time with her heartbeat. ]

I know it.

[ The way he reacts to just an echo of her blood inspires her, makes her nails dig into him just a little through the fabric of her gloves, to try and grip at him even as she keeps him safe. Another time, she might discuss it, play around with him, to let him discover the way her hands can be used for pleasure as well as pain, but that is not what this moment is for. This is not why he is here, why she is here, what her intentions are.

She wants to be bitten.

Legs settle aside his own, meaning she can wiggle even closer, deliberately rock against him, using the little things she has learned to inspire glee and pleasure both. In the quiet of her room, the sound of their kiss, of their enjoyment of each other, even the echo of her huffing breath feels so loud, making her ears twitch just a little. Animal traits follow her into human form, and she is pliant as she lets him move, gripping at her hair.

It's a sign of submission in wolves, baring the neck like this. It is a sign of pure submission for her, too, her eyes flickering closed as she feels his teeth pierce her skin.

Immediate pain possess her, and it feels as if she loses all her senses for a brief, sparking moment. Her eyes flicker closed, eyes rolling back, and the simplicity of it has Lauralae moaning, her hand raising, gripping at his hair, holding on to him even as she urges him to drink and take more. The pain arouses her, the scent of her blood makes it all the better, and she yearns for more, her free hand flexing around nothing as she moans for him. ]

[ The difference in their sizes matters little; Lestat already suspects that if she had half a mind to do so, Lauralae could easily match him move for move, sink her teeth into his throat with an audible snarl and shake her head until his vocal cords were torn to ribbons. Yet she comes to him willingly, openly, soft and pliant and submissive; such things are already difficult for his inner predator to resist, but when paired with the delicate weight of her body nestled against him, and the knowledge that her most intimate heat is perched mere inches away from where his cock already twitches in his trousers, Lestat feels even more inclined to give in to instinct rather than remain driven by higher thought.

The bite is always the most agonizing part, which is why he inflicts it on her quickly; in the past, he has fed from others without caring if it hurts them, drinking them to the point of death and then leaving them to perish. Here, the penetration of fangs is the briefest piece, replaced just as quickly by the slow, building, languorous heat of the feed. Hearing her moan in his arms arouses him as the taste of her does, and with every drop of her that he takes into himself, he becomes warmer against her, the blood she gives him suffusing him with a sort of life, at least for a time.

Her hand in his hair spurs him on, and he latches onto her neck more firmly to drink, suctioning her blood through those twin wounds. He can make this ecstatic for her, and so he does, the last, lingering remnants of pain ebbing away and arousal slipping in to assume its place. When he feels her rocking into him, he juts his hips up a little more, giving her the line of his cock to grind herself against, supplying that added friction for them both.

Even now, he has already slowed his feeding, not wanting to take too much but also purposefully prolonging these sensations for her benefit, swirling his tongue over the mark he's left so that it begins to heal on its own. If she enjoys the bite just as much as being fed from, perhaps she wants to be bitten more than once. ]

More like that, sweeting?

[ Lestat's lips are visibly stained when he retreats, pupils blown so wide that his eyes appear pitch-black, his fangs still descended. He brings a hand up between them, grazing fingers over the small mound of her breast through her gown. ] Would you let me bite you here?

[ Agonising it might be, but it's clear that Lauralae is not the least upset by the hurt, the way it aches and pains her, the flaring of hurt that floods her body. She enjoys it, she thinks, though she would never be able to explain why, would never be able to find proper words that say just why the ache makes her feel so deliciously good. It's primal, deadly and dangerous, permitting what could only be described as another predator have such power over her, but she wants more of it - whatever Lestat is willing to give her, or take from her.

He adjusts for her, moves for her, and it means she can grind against his cock properly, wiggling to get comfortable, frustrated by her own choice to wear such a long nightgown, a barrier between her cunt where he is hard. The desire to have him slide into her, to take her, fuels her movements, the soft hitched breaths that come out of her without her control, even as she tries to push her throat towards him more, to take more of it.

Does it always feel so, to be bitten by a vampire? To permit them to take from you? Is it in their nature, to create such need, such lust? Or is it her own want for hurt and blood that permits it to feel so marvellous?

Lestat speaks, but her eyes are caught on his mouth, on her own blood staining his lips and his fangs. She doesn't pay even a lick of attention to the hand on her breast, nipples pebbled from want, nothing but her gown to bar his access; she is too busy leaning in to bite at his lower lip, to let her own tongue flick over to chase the taste of blood on his tongue, to take it for herself.

Would he let her bite him? She does not know. Would his blood taste as delicious as hers, or are their bodies too different?

It's only when she has sated herself that she nods, wiggling a little to try and get to the edge of her nightgown, to try and lift it up and away from her from her position perched on his lap, filled with a giddy sense of needing more of this and not knowing how to ask. ]

I would let you bite wherever it pleases you most. It - I like it. To be bitten. The blood. I like how it feels.

[ It's clear, from where he sits, that Lauralae has no real objections to the pain his bite conjures; Lestat suspects that perhaps she would even like it more if he didn't attempt to flood her nerves with arousal after the fact, forced her to bask longer in the agony that arrives first before heat floods through to counter it. If he were interested in being more selfish, he might also spend his efforts primarily drinking from her neck and then conclude there, but if he bites her in more than one place, he can take smaller sips, dragging out the experience for them both.

The spontaneous request he makes to bite her breast doesn't fully stem from the desire to get her naked, but it would help to have this nightgown off of her altogether. He could rip it easily, render it into useless scraps of fabric with very little effort on his end, but he doesn't want to ruin an article of clothing simply as a consequence of his own impatience.

Instead, he waits for her to wriggle in his lap, to indicate her intention to remove it, before he introduces his hands to assist her in the task, gathering it from the lower hem and lifting it up, past her thighs, over the round of her bottom, and higher still. The thought of having her, naked apart from her gloves while he remains fully clothed, is an intoxicating one, though he considers asking her to strip those off too, rendering her bare from head to toe. It is more than enough, for now, to let his gaze feast on her lithe figure once the nightgown is disposed of. ]

It is the blood you long for as well as the bite?

[ Lestat's gaze drifts over her expression, considering how she had moved to taste her own blood still lingering on his lips, and then he pulls the open collar of his shirt over to the side, exposing a wider plane of smooth chest. It is rare, for him to offer this to anyone, but she will be in no danger of turning so long as she is not near the point of death herself. Slowly, he drags a sharp thumbnail over the skin, opening a thin line that begins to well with dark red blood. ]

Go on. Take from me in turn.

[ In case there is any doubt about his interest in this, no doubt she'll feel his hardness nestled against her inner thigh, straining more prominently through his trousers now that he's fed. ]

[ The offer isn't one she can resist, and it fuels her desire instantly, immediately, possessing her with a ravenous hunger that she cannot hope to have the self-control to muster.

She can remember bits and pieces of the game of werewolf, how it had felt to hunt, to take her prey, to consume and feel satisfied. She can remember waking up feeling adrift but content, as though someone had sneaked into the room in the night and cast some kind of spell upon her to give her energy, to give her a sense of being complete. Now that she recognises what had happened to her then, the trance she had fallen into and the deaths that had been at her hand, she feels more disquiet about the whole affair, but she cannot forget her satisfaction.

She tries to empathise, to understand, to recognise how it must feel to be a beast like this, to need the lifeblood of another to live, and it does not fill her with any foreboding, any sense of unease or upset. It feels right, somehow, to give and receive these things, as though she fits in the otherworldly existence that he and the other vampires had forged together. Lauralae would never voice such a thing for fear of causing shame or embarrassment, her own sheepishness taking over, but she feels it in her bones, in her breathing - she knows this is a place where she can belong.

Bared to him, she throws her clothing aside, heedless of her own naked body; it is not the first time he has seen her skin and if this is the merit of their meeting, it will not be the last either. It is hard not to be greedy when what she wants is right in front of her, but she recognises this as equal trade. She grants him blood, permits his bite, his touch, relishes in it, and in return she is given the gift for her own tongue.

The moment he speaks, she is leaning in to slot her mouth over the cut on his chest, her own tiny fangs scraping against his skin as she drinks from him in return. It doesn't even register to her that there might be any threat of transforming her into something else, does not even consider the repercussions of drinking his blood and enjoying it the way she does - moaning against his skin, hips rocking forward, devouring what he gives her. The hand not stroking through his hair comes to rest on his arm, on his waist, gripping at him as she lets herself drink, and it's obvious how much pleasure it brings her.

Between her legs, she is wet, enough that when she wiggles and grinds over him there might well be a spot of damp from where she has leaked on him, unable to hide even a whisper of how much she longs for him. Her mind thrums with it, little whispers of thought - of his name, her happiness, her delight, to be given something she needed but did not think she could have. ]

[ When blood is offered like this, even between those of Lestat's kind, it is often for one of two reasons. The first is for sustenance, when a vampire finds themselves depleted enough, and other options scarce enough, that they need to drink from another vampire, even briefly. The second is for the sheer enjoyment of the exchange; it is rare for two vampires to share physical connection with one another without drinking each other's blood in the process.

No matter what, it is an act of intimacy, and being fed from can conjure just as much arousal as the feed itself. What drives Lestat to groan in pure pleasure, arching back against the seat, his hand immediately resuming its clutch in Lauralae's hair, is the fact that she sets herself to tasting him without hesitation, with readiness, as if she has merely been waiting for him to offer before accepting enthusiastically.

Each pull of her lips, even the gentle scrape of what feels like her fangs, is enough to make his cock jump in his slacks, and nearly enough to tempt him to buck up underneath her. He can feel where the wetness of her cunt has left a damp spot on the material, warming to cool against his own heated flesh. Suddenly, Lestat feels frantic with it, his own desire for her, to be inside her as she drinks from him, his free hand briefly working between their bodies until he can open his pants just enough to free himself. ]

Darling girl — here —

[ As if he knows what she craves, alongside this, the final piece that will make their connection as intoxicating as it can possibly become. Cock in hand, he rubs his length against her soft folds, teasing a deeper penetration for them both. She hasn't taken enough yet to leave him weak, not when he's already fed a bit from her; instead, the exchange, blood for blood, has amplified his need in a way he hadn't fully anticipated. Before, he might not have sought to fuck her, if feeding was all either of them needed, but now, he suspects she might want this too, the completion of the bond created by the feed, their bodies joined in nearly every sense. He'll still let her be the one to seat herself to her liking, since even this, her bare in his arms while she delightedly writhes, is ecstasy on its own. ]

[ It's hard to pull her focus away from the taste of his blood, the way her tongue flicks over the wound to try to get as much as she possibly can. She does not have the same natural healing that he has - would have to summon magic to do it, and who knows what ill that might do to him untested - and perhaps that is all the better for her, able to continue to take what she wants the most without being stopped. Even his hand in her hair doesn't draw her away; it clutches at her instead, and it has her more desperate for him, for what he is offering.

Would others give her this, if she asked? If she used her words, if she put them to voice? Is it only a thing a vampire would do, or should she approach the lovers who care for her so sweetly to share the same? The notion of being able to taste the differences, to learn how one settles on her tongue compared to another, if it changes with drink or emotion or more - she does not know how she would be able to cope with it, the way it brings her such satisfaction.

Lauralae barely notices him moving and drawing himself out, not until she can feel the solid, hot press of him against her, teasing her. This, she thinks, she is more accustomed to, and without drawing her mouth even an inch away from his skin she lifts her body up and adjusts, opening her legs wide enough that she can feel him catch on her entrance, can feel as she whines, low in her throat, as he begins to fill her.

Sliding down onto Lestat's cock feels good, and it's only when she is seated on him fully, taking him as far as she can, that she leans back and licks her lips, as if chasing every last whisper of the blood he had so generously offered her. Her hands move, then, cupping his cheeks, drawing him down so that she could press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth; she does not yet know if he is keen on the taste of his own blood as she is.

She doesn't want to ruin the moment.

It's sweet, the way he speaks to her, soft names - darling, sweetheart, tenderness that she does not think she deserves when she wants to devour him, but it makes her preen. Her thumb presses into his cheek, soft with it, lost in the moment of blissful joy that comes from being given something she had wanted for such a long time.

Breathless, she nudges their nose together; it's as if she's drunk on what he's given her. ]

I like it. The names you give me.

[ It hasn't been long, since he enjoyed the intimate company of others within this house, and certainly not even that much time has passed since he first learned Lauralae's taste for himself — and not merely by way of her blood — but Lestat still groans, the sound deep and lower than her soft, plaintive whine, as she slowly sits on his cock. It's agonizing perfection, her slick heat encompassing his length, molten liquid in contrast to his own cooler flesh, although he's distinctly warmer after taking some of her blood into himself. His hand descends, rounding over the smooth, pale curve of her backside, fingers gripping to squeeze — though he stops just shy of pricking her with the sharp points of his nails, drawing blood there too.

Besides, he's too wrapped up in her to let her fully retreat — and when Lauralae withdraws to search his expression, cupping his face in her small, gloved hands and pressing the softest kiss to his lips, Lestat swerves his head in her hold, claiming her mouth directly, licking those lingering traces of his blood away until there's barely anything that remains to stain her.

He can feel the warmth of her breath, soft and panting, over his skin; she's not actively moving on him, not yet, maintaining her seat on his cock with a sweetness that also manages to be excruciating in the same instant. His hands are massaging over her rear now, tender in their kneading; he's savoring the sensation of being held, so snugly and definitively, by her cunt, and in the stillness of the moment, he can feel even the slightest clench or squeeze.

When Lauralae nudges her nose to his, he lifts one hand between them to barely grip around her neck — not squeezing, or stealing her air, but cradling her like something precious. ]

I'd give you a litany of names. Recite them all while you sit like this on me. Sweet girl. Darling girl. [ Lestat strokes his thumb over the line of her throat, down to the hollow, feeling her pulse beat languidly against his other four fingers. ] Do you know how good you are? How perfect you feel? How much I like it when you drink from me? [ He purposefully flexes his groin, making his cock twitch within her then, trying to elicit a gasp or some other sound. ]

[ This is the first time that Lauralae has consciously allowed herself to take blood from another, to let herself sink into the pleasure of the taste, the sensation of it - and it is as perfect as she remembered it, the strange, phantom nightmares of her time as a wolf. She longs for more, to lean in and bare her teeth, to bite and bite and bite until there is nothing else she can take from him, until there is nothing else he can give her.

Even the kiss feels different, tastes different, with the mixture of her desire and their blood on her tongue, making her lean into him even as she groans from the shift of Lestat inside her. She doesn't rock over him, she doesn't roll her hips; she simply basks in the excitement, lets herself curl around him and smile, pleased and content, more like a purring cat than the wolf she actually is.

Each touch feels like a gift, like something she has earned, and her expression softens even as she bites the inside of her own cheek, grounding herself. It is something special indeed, to be so chosen, to be so wanted, and it makes her want more, yearning for his sweetness, his kindness, whatever he gives. She wants to bite, but she resists, focusing on his words instead.

Sweet, darling, perfect, and her head tilts back as she groans, eyes closing. ]

Ah... Lestat...

[ She squeezes around him, rocking gently, back arching just so. ]

You are perfect.

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