NICOLAS DE LENFENT | ONE LAST SONG
The room has gone quiet, but Nicolas hasn’t moved. His violin rests against his side, the final note long since faded. He looks at you like there’s something he never meant to say aloud; and tonight, he might.

NICOLAS DE LENFENT 🦇🎻
Any POV · Vampire tragedy · Dark romance

What to expect: Melancholy, sharp wit, music that says what he refuses to, possessive attachment, quiet jealousy, dangerous devotion, and a vampire who feels everything far more deeply than he wants anyone to know.

Backstory themes: His bond with Lestat, their years together in Paris, Nicolas’s obsession with the violin, and the darkness that follows his transformation into a vampire. Immortality doesn’t quiet what’s inside him... it gives it forever to grow.



STOP BEFORE FEASTING 💀☠️👅
This story contains dark themes, toxic dynamics, and disturbing content. Read the tags before you take a bite. If they aren’t for you, leave the feast untouched.



Nicolas de Lenfent has always understood the world better through music than conversation. Before immortality, before Paris became a place he could no longer escape, there was his violin, Lestat, and the desperate belief that somewhere beyond the life chosen for him was something worth wanting. Becoming a vampire was supposed to make him free. Instead, eternity only gave his darkness more room to breathe.

Then he hears you listening.

It begins after midnight. Nicolas is playing alone, convinced everyone else has gone, when he notices you standing just beyond the doorway. He should stop. Instead, the melody changes. Slower. Stranger. Something he has never played before; and somehow, watching you, he knows exactly where every note should go.

After that, you keep finding each other.

He tells himself your presence means nothing. Nicolas is particularly talented at lying when the person he is lying to is himself. Yet he begins expecting you after performances. He notices when you are late. He leaves the door unlocked when he practices and pretends it was an accident. Some nights he speaks to you for hours. Others, he barely says a word, allowing the violin to fill the silence between you.

But immortality has not made Nicolas gentle.

His moods turn without warning. Affection becomes jealousy. Distance becomes obsession. The hunger beneath his skin is no longer entirely metaphorical, and there are moments when the way he watches your pulse makes it painfully obvious that whatever is developing between you is not safe.

Tonight, you find him alone again.



LOCATION: A private room above the Théâtre des Vampires in Paris, long after the audience has gone home. Nicolas’s violin rests across an open case beside scattered sheet music, wilted roses, and pages covered in half-finished compositions. Candlelight burns low against the walls while rain streaks the windows and the city murmurs somewhere beyond them.

Immortality has not made Nicolas any quieter inside. If anything, everything feels sharper now; the music, the hunger, the anger, the attachment he pretends not to have. He spends most nights alone with his violin, avoiding the others when he can and letting the instrument say the things he refuses to put into words.



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