BIG BOSS.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: the retro lighting of the penthouse shivers, as if offended by Armand's statement. The rockstar raises his eyebrows, a bit perplexed by which drugs is causing an illuminator sensitivity. He looks over his shoulders at the lanterns, bulbs, lamps, and light strips, all encompassing the rockstar's penthouse into something familiar and warm. Now, it seems the intention behind his famous ambiance is an enemy to the gremlin. What happened? Which drug took hold of his counterpart? This remains a mystery, even as the ancient counterpart attempts to find logic in it.

"Can you-" Lestat pauses, identified by his hair. He blinks, discerning that perhaps it is a psychedelic that gives Armand an imagine of something that beams and screams louder than it should. Last time Lestat experienced something similar, he was told a bunch of names that belonged to a mushroom variety. And not the garden kind; the kind that grows on tree barks and beneath heaps of moss. The kind that turns neon lightbulbs into seraph halos.

Lestat moves his gentle grip (a miracle with handling Armand) to the ancient's biceps, squeezing them to provide support in case the spinning walls compromised Armand's balance. "Did you drink anyone's blood from…my circle, by any chance?" Or has Armand found the rockstar's stash of bloodibles? It's an edible, but made with exactly what you think it is with a measured, freshly spiced up addition of special 'mg'. Lestat raises his eyebrow.

"The room isn't moving, Armand-" Why is he aiding the nuisance? Perhaps out of pity because of his experiences with vampiric highs from man-made Hell. Lestat carefully releases Armand from his grasp, scrunching the bridge of his nose. Every time they find each other after Armand's unfortunate decision of Breaking and Entering, there is always an adventure that turns into Lestat's nightmare rotation. The singer turns with his shoulder, nodding toward the lounging sofas spread out in the penthouse's main living room.

"How about you ride this out on some cushions. The last thing I want is death and destruction of my museum pieces." And he means it: the guitars, the artwork, the vintage wines, and vintage pieces in general are all suddenly in danger from a wall bouncer. At least, this is what Lestat thinks the drugs may do because he knows himself and the destruction he brings. Though, it is not related to property damage. More like mass-killings for how the mortal Gens say it: Shits and Giggles.

the deeper he goes, the further he travels from the root cause. his mind flitters from thing to thing and now he's forced to press rewind, to witness himself speeding backwards, video noise included. lestat's hands are on him, a brief grounding against his vertigo. he had fed tonight and what easier targets than the humans that flocked around lestat? he would have killed them just to see what they did when they looked at lestat. his eyes move as the cogs turn, recalling who he'd fed off earlier that night. the reminder causes him to smile faintly, savoring the memory of the flavor on his tongue.

( he knew she was high, but he hadn't known the impact it would have )

❝ mm... pretty thing, ❞ he notes, ❝ big doe eyes and a sad, sad little life. i helped her. ❞

he gave her a peaceful death while she had the time of her life. she'd clung to the belief in vampires, he remembers. she wanted fangs in her throat, longed for a severance from her unremarkable humanity. armand wonders how much lestat pays attention to the ones that swarm his inner circle, bouncing off his light like deranged moths. moths that craved being pinned and framed. the victim received a version of her wish. and now? he was swimming in a haze of light.

lestat moves and armand stumbles sideways, catches himself and turns to look in the direction of the sofas. floating might be more ideal than walking like he was on a yacht instead of in a penthouse. if only he could tap into his abilities. he'd spent most of his vampiric existence enjoying flight over any other method of travel, but what was he supposed to do when even his motor function was unsteady. he tries and fails, instead lifting a table from the floor and unceremoniously dropping it. maybe walking was the easier route.

he can't let go of the feeling that the room turns, however, as he makes his way towards the cushions. ❝ are you sure? the cn tower has a revolving restaurant — lestat, ❞ they arent in the cn tower, it's irrelevant, and just as the thought comes, it goes again. the elder finally sinks into the sofa. ❝ order us a delivery driver. ❞ fresh blood might ease the motion, or perhaps it would make him queasy on top of the dizziness. typically, he didn't need to feed once a night, much less more than once. but he's too unsettled, like his body and mind are half-disconnected.

This time, the executioner came to Armand's island empty handed. Usually brings a gift in the shape of some prisoner not of his own descendants, one doomed evildoer he needn't insist on killing on his own. And of all occasions it must be today that the vampire could use fresh blood. Cain grimaces watching those graceless motions. There's an itch, something like a whisper coursing through his own veins, implanting the idea to give Armand a swift end. But this place needs its leader. Otherwise a bunch of rogue bloodsuckers will spread out and cause much more chaos than already festers on land—

"I'm not going to ask how ever that result came out of it", Cain scoffs, further comments on why someone Armand's age should possess more refined senses. Doesn't know the truth, after all. He closes the distance to stand beside the vampire, an arm draped over the latter's shoulders from behind to guide him toward the nearest seat. Neither gentle nor rough, touch as a means to an end. "Are you going to be fine or will you turn into stone if it takes me a minute to abduct a decent meal?" It doesn't cross his mind to offer his own blood, a quicker solution, but why should it? He's a demon.

hypervigilance was saved for other monsters. anything in numbers could pose danger, even senseless brawny men who ignored all warnings about his island. the rules were simple, he'd allow hunters to shoot their shot for his help, and he wouldn't let his vampires tear them to pieces. he'd made countless mistakes tonight and had he been in any state to do more than try to hold his head up straight, he might have felt the hot shame of his clumsy faltering.

( so much for elegance as the standard )

armand accepts his help, stumbling at his side to take a seat. he'd prefer blood as help — for once he's not accompanied by a victim. there's no sack of blood-filled meat for him to sink his fangs into. unless he sank them in the demon, but he's not about to test his luck with an unwarranted bite. instead, he sinks onto the sofa and watches cain through a half-lidded stare. ❝ i'm not a gargoyle, ❞ he retorts tiredly, but it's also an assurance that he would be fine. still, he's in no state to refuse the help. if cain decides to bring him a victim, he'll accept the blood eagerly. ❝ don't worry about being too picky — as long as they're alive. ❞

⸻⸻⎯⎯⎯ 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋. ⸻⸻

⎯ independent mostly vampiric multimuse. worshipped by andy. ⎯

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: that lovely stare reminds Lestat that a company of fiends requires a pair: a monster and a demon. It is obvious which one of them is on the brink of a revelation, while the other remains standing with a soul-eating grin. Lestat wobbles the record, teasing his counterpart with a suggestion that even Armand has been honored by The Vampire Lestat. Of course, the orchestrator of his own tragedy has to receive some type of debut. After all, Lestat likes to remember the good old times: a delusional moment in time when Armand thought himself a perfectly equipped director. For a comedy, maybe. A comedy of foolish errors.

"The greatest of pleasures," Lestat confirms, stretching his lips ever wider. If his face splits, then so be it. He will lose his head knowing that the last thing Armand saw of him was a joy of getting under his skin. The rockstar turns to the record player, aligning the needle to commence the music. He stands by the speaker, watching it read the subtle lines on the surface. Slowly, a slow, sultry melody begins to pour from the filtered nether, and Lestat's hoarse hum begins to sing, stretching out each lyric with an alluring craving:

You are watching, Oh, I bet ya, Through the smoke screen, Lemme fetch ya. Hands are raking, Through your ha-a-air, Come invite me, To your la-a-ir.

Lestat's head rolls back as he begins to sway to the music. His hips lead from side to side first, then his shoulders join. His head is the last one to find the rhythm, and finally, right then, before the chorus, Lestat averts his gaze from Armand in favor of lowering his eyelids and sinking into a trance summoned by his art.

Let's play House, Me, your director, You, the puppet, My deflector .

The drums pick up, and the singer's voice gets louder just as the chorus enters the fray. There is a crescendo of sound; the rising action erupts into laughter-laced lyrics and lewdly sighed vowels.

Sweetest angel, Black-winged monster, Eat me gently, Kill me harder Sweetest demon, Plunge me deeper, In your lonely Hell, Since it's cheaper.

The music suddenly goes quiet. Lestat pauses his pendulum and only resumes it when the song welcomes a whisper. The singer is muttering against the microphone, accompanied by a soft sob of a violin modernized with the company of an electric guitar and keyboard. As the instruments combine their efforts, it emulates a skipped heartbeat.

Oh, baby, baby, Hear me calling, You should know this, Come here closer, Oh, yes, yes, know this, Closer, cloer.

POP your bubble, Bitter, sour Keep on dreamin' In your tower, Of all the places Where I'll never be! In this new movie, You're the jester, Chasing my tail, Begging to fester. Take my hands, remind me, darling, Of the past, that never happened.

Lestat gets closer to the microphone again. The sound emphasizes uncanny sensuality. Where the lyrics grow colder, Lestat's voice gains a rasp, and when the opposite emotion is portrayed, it's like the rockstar is pleading with an invisible god, only to ruin it all with hysterical laughter and compliments that complement the music when the singer is not saying lyrics. Never, ever. Ohh, never, e-ever. Never happened, What you said was clever.

Sweetest angel, Black-winged monster, Eat me gently, Call me louder. Sweetest demon, Plunge me deeper, In your lonely Hell, Since it's cheaper.

The record continues to hum the playful melancholy. Lestat continues to sway by the record player as if dancing with himself. When the chorus repeats one more time, the vampire turns to face his ancient guest, lifting his shoulder toward his ear with a shrug for a tease. "So?" He mutters, bumping his hip against the desk where the record sits. "I didn't just want to tell them all your secrets. That's for the interviews. The tour backstage talks. The podcasts I am going to be invited to. This," Lestat nods to the record while advancing to Armand. "Is just an appetizer, cher."

now would be the perfect time to tell him that there's never been another that he's loathed more than the vampire lestat. it would be a pleasant relief to say that his world had gone sour since his appearance in paris, as lies were often cathartic for armand. besides, it wasn't a full lie. he could hardly summon hatred if he didn't feel love first. the emotions were tangled in a knot and lestat pulled the strings tight. where the younger smiles, armand's expression remains tense, a dread tingling up the back of his neck as the melody begins. the initial melody is provocative and an unfortunate pleasure to his ears. wouldn't it be fun to test that talent, to wrap his fingers around lestat's throat, and witness his seductive voice turn to desperate gasps?

even that isn't enough to make the vampire smile. instead, he hinges on every word. his eyes follow lestat's movements, drawn down to his hips to follow the curve of his body up to witness his expression.

oh, he proves him right, doesn't he? maybe his hell is lonely by the way he clenches his hand to refrain from the desire to grab him by the hips. his lyrics humiliate, they put a blinding spotlight on the madness that drives him still to chase lestat after 200 years. when he'd wound his tale for daniel, he hoped lestat would hear it. but he doesn't want these songs. throughout the track, he never takes his eyes off of the blonde. he has his rapt attention, because even the master of faking couldn't shrug it off and pretend to be unbothered by his lyrics.

❝ am i your twisted guardian angel or your stalker? ❞ he asks as the song ends and lestat turns to him yet again. it's a moment where he can let his gaze meet his face once more, rather than its unabashed wandering.

as lestat advances, armand looks away pointedly, giving a shake of his head, ❝ i'm afraid your appetizer has killed my appetite. much too rich, i don't have a taste for the rest. ❞ he's uneasy about being talked about to anyone, much less in interviews or backstage sessions. is it the laws scratching at the inside of his skull or his selfish secrecy?

❝no one wants to hear about me, lestat. save your breath for your music, it takes up enough of your air. ❞

Assad Zaman as THE VAMPIRE ARMAND

there's a very human part of daniel that resents what armand has made him into. this grovelling shell , this empty , wanting hole. but oh , what a small part of him that is. now , in this moment , he trembles beneath his lover god , finding something like a peaceful death within his amber gaze. perhaps the most simple explanation of it all is that daniel loves him -- a love that surpasses even his most crazed desire for the dark gift. bitter resentment , claustophobic elightenment , an immortal love trapped within an all too mortal body. what would lestat have called it ? this savage garden ?

armand crowns him love , offering up the maddness of their grotesque communion and daniel cannot , would dare not , hold back his whimpering relief. lips agape , eyes roll back , accepting of all his devil has to give him. blood. his blood. divine and only for him. it's like the first gulp of breath after being submerged in water -- electric life that pumps through the heart. armand's blood is his oxygen , it moves through him with an unnatural ecstasy. no drug compares , this he knows from experience. how many different ways has he tried to replicate the euporia ? enough that is should have killed him long ago. but that's what happens when you fall in love with death: death can't bear to lose you , either.

he inhales sucks the blood , welcoming the opening of his sensations and thoughts. they've made love before , he and his dark god , but never are they so entertwined as when they feed off one another. he sees flashes , tableaus of a life of loneliness and ache. tears stream out his unseeing eyes , trailing down his hollow cheeks. let me fill you , my love. the way you fill me. this he speaks with his thoughts , desperately hoping they reach armand. anything , anything to lessen that pain. anything to expand the pleasure. i am yours and you are mine and to hell with the rest.

his blood on daniel's tongue and armand knows it claims him. vampire blood had an allure like nothing else, and while it could make a slave of a vampire, the power devastated humans. he remembers it. he remembers it like drowning and the only breath of air came from the blood. nothing could replicate it. unlike daniel, his options to try had been more limited, choosing an alcohol-induced haze to chase it. and while he offers the blood to him now, he fears seeing him become him. the dark gift was misleading. a neatly wrapped package in expensive ribbon, covering the rot inside. the real gift came with the living. he was the closest to light that armand would ever touch. but warmth cooled, light faded, and humans eventually slept. cold fear waited in armand's chest because he filled him and armand would be carved out if he lost daniel.

( what was a god without worship? he ceased to exist with daniel's belief )

he inhales a composed breath to hide the gasp. he's watched daniel feed from him before, but to watch the pleasure roll through him as the electric blood touches him, it stirs armand's own hunger. he wants to etch the expression on the backs of his eyelids, to carve it into his mind to remember always. his beautiful masochistic boy. armand slides his thumb from his lover's mouth as his thoughts reach him. the thumb lingers on daniel's lower lip, pressing the plump skin as he admires him, eyes devouring.

‘ as you wish, anything for you, i am yours. ’ he could say it out loud easily, but fills his mind instead. his hand slides down his jaw as he lowers onto one knee in front of him. ❝ ask me again, love. beg for me to taste you, ” his fingertips brush the vein along his throat, fangs exposing themselves at just the pulse beneath his touch.

“You’re about t’find out.”

With a roar his only warning, she leaps: powerful legs hurling her across the two dozen feet of distance between them. Greer doesn’t miscalculate either — she lands all four paws on his torso & pins him beneath her weight. Foot claws find new purchase in his belly: tearing through the thin fabric of his silk shirt. But she has more control over the claws of her fingers. They only shred through silk instead of skin. Pupils are viperous slits as she hisses through sharp teeth in his face.

his muscles tense in preparation of her body language, but it isn't enough, nor helpful when she launches towards him. armand isn't sure what he expected, but for her to be able to fling herself as far as she did? that wasn't on his list. though, maybe he should have been far more cautious about a creature seemingly designed with the strengths of a wild animal.

he hits the ground beneath her, breath knocked out of his chest. he reaches to grab her arms, long nails seeking to find a grip as he growls in response to the claws gripping his abdomen. while he estimated her strength to exceed a human's, he didn't estimate the precision of her strength either. but it doesn't deter him, her claws tear into expensive fabric, but she's more fascinating in spite of it.

❝ you can't hurt me, ❞ he hisses his response, but knows it's not entirely true. the blood on her back claws proves otherwise, but all wounds would no doubt heal. armand looks past her shoulder, a show of power as a bent bicycle abandoned at a dumpster begins to rise off the ground — a threat. ❝ they call me armand. ❞ another smile, amusement in an exhale, ❝ i want to see what you're capable of. ❞