𝑹𝑶𝑪𝑲𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹

@eladead asked: you're bouncing off the walls .

what did he drink? armand's lost track of the conversation, his stream of consciousness flowing in nonsensical rambling, hands flailing, pacing, and a sudden detour to lestat's kitchen to test out the vitamix before he wound up yet again in the center of the living room scrolling through art sales on his phone, concoction forgotten on a table somewhere. it must've been his earlier victim, a jittery party-goer out of his mind on uppers.

he hears lestat, but continues on, ❝ a house full of ghosts, from different eras, locations, brought together through haunted art — ❞ it registers. bouncing off the walls. he stops thinking about his hypothetical ghost experiment and looks back at the younger vampire with a dilated stare, ❝ i don't bounce, i float. ❞

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: the penthouse is illuminated by an abundance of orange and pink that cascades over burgundy furniture. In the true 80s fashion of pop art and jazz, Lestat does not let himself get overwhelmed by modern technology. He is catching up on all the eras, and the one vibe he is going for is currently a low-light seduction to the eyes. He has been decorating with new accessories before a loud crash collapsed all of his desire to participate in beautifying his expensive abode. Armand, a permanent uninvited guest, is suddenly in competition for the most animated man in a rockstar's apartment. Solidified in place, Lestat watches in subtle horror as the local ancient fossil flails about like a startled cat.

"What-" he pauses, lowering the glass necklace that belongs to a new lamp before something terrible happens to it. He tries to locate the source of the crash, but Armand returns, muttering and gesturing something incoherent. The rockstar leaves the corner by the abundantly stocked bar, carefully heading toward his counterpart to catch him before he hurts the rest of the expensive decor. "Hey, what are you doing? Armand!" Lestat snaps, furrowing his eyebrows while reaching for the ancient's wrists.

"Float? Slow down," the intoxication expert peers at the wide-eyed vampire with a puzzled expression, lowering his hands to keep them locked between them. "You are saying weird things, weirder than what I expect you to say regularly." Lestat grimaces, shaking his head. "Where are you right now?"

His doom is only solidified by the power it makes him feel. Naturally, he is susceptible to all the tragically human flaws, no matter how much he tries to deny it. The surge of sickening delight, steady pleasure, and finally relinquishing misgivings in favor of small mercies. He wishes to indulge the vampire, as ludicrous as that sounds. He can excuse Lestat’s hunger as a necessity, not necessarily something born of sadism or psychopathy. Was it not an act of supreme human stupidity to imagine he could subdue such a beast? He was no snake charmer, and yet, Will attempted.

It doesn’t matter to him how he is manhandled. His back hits the table in a fleeting moment, a small grunt escaping but no real complaints offered. As long as Lestat stays near him. The problem was this gazelle could bear its teeth back, even if it was only vanity, callousness or just indifference towards the threat. He doesn’t feel like prey, never has, which leads him on this disastrous entanglement with the vampire. How can he feel like a quarry when the other can barely contain himself with the restraint required to not just rip out his neck. Will smiles. Who was hunting who? That thought is propelled and pushed, loud and clear, evidently meant for Lestat to latch onto. He takes every ounce of begging for what it was. He eats it up– watches all the minuscule reactions crossing across the other’s face to decipher it all. And in response, he can only reward Lestat’s efforts. He would have stabbed him a few hours early for asking this and now, Will’s foundation is a little shaky. He succumbs to the fucking adoration.

With his head propped up, he turns his face away, neck exposed in offering. Whatever piety was required for a golden-maned death god. Will has found his new religion, and it resembles the way Lestat trembles against him with his restraint. He deserves his accolades, even if they came from capillaries and the spilling veins surrounding. His hand reaches, fingers sliding up the other’s nape, guiding him down to the singular point of interest. The steady drumming of his pulse at his jugular.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Lestat wouldn't mind dooming both of them. The vampire sneers at his own need to plunge his teeth into a plaint throat and watch it burst like a crushed spring bud of a growing apple. Or a plum. He could maul and sever this gorgeous head the same way he dealt with a poor, innocent bartender just to get a rise out of William. Getting no reaction even back then, or at the shared party, or anywhere in between, Lestat learned something new about himself: he really likes this insufferable game.

His lips stalk the center of Will's throat, picking a spot where he can eat away the mortal sin. Would the human ever consider joining the undead? A thought mostly terrifying. If Will becomes a vampire, what is Lestat going to do then? To have this man as a fledgling is like summoning the Devil to haunt you in your personal Hell. Admittedly, Lestat likes when he can hear his mind and feel the warmth of his beating heart.

The rockstar grins at the thread of whispers that make it into his mind. Ah, so Will catches on well. Now, they are communicating within the intimate confines of their madness, and the vampire rewards the stubborn mortal by adoring his jaw with slow, near-sticky kisses. He wants to call Will something wicked right into his ear; to tug at his earlobe and remind him of how filthy he is. And yet, the vampire's seduction is trapped in the drumming vein. Fuck, Will smells good.

Lestat's hands wander the body underneath him, searching for something to latch onto: a pantleg, a pocket, a belt loop, the lower button of a shirt, the wrinkled fabric, a collar, the edge of a sleeve with a peering wrist, and anything that unveils the mortal more. Lestat keeps returning to the other man's waist. He thinks that this is his favorite part of him.

When his face is guided against hot skin, Lestat fails to suppress a throaty grunt. His nostrils flare to imbibe the gorgeous flow of red just underneath the skin. He can see the pulse of the artery and the tension of the stretched neck. Lestat smiles as the tip of his tongue outlines a spot on Will's skin, marking it as the landing mark. An invitation blurs into a command, and Lestat feels a prickling sensation of violence. Will tugs at the seams of his patience. He holds back solely because dragging out the moment adds to the pleasure. Just knowing such access could have been as easy as breaking Will's neck, and yet a monster's mercy is held up on a silver platter. Another kiss just to suck in the perfume of life. Will's aversion to the vampire's need has been audible for a while. This is revenge for that moron dragged into the garden labyrinth as a superficial sacrifice. Mockery. Lestat felt jealous then. He wondered if Will sensed it too and shared the sentiment.

"Little devil," the vampire's hoarse chuckle bleeds into a calm sigh as his fangs drop from their cage. Eagerly, his mouth hangs agape until saliva pools at the edges of his mouth, threatening to spill over and stain the mortal's skin. He breaches the firm, slightly salty meat with an indulgent bite. Blood spills over his tongue, coating it in a molten layer that flutters his eyes shut. He can't help but moan, channeling his impatience through his hands, which dig into the table by Will's sides. He drinks in the thoughts, the memories, the flashes of visions that belong solely to William. The emotional turmoil and that stunted existence as a mortal being cursed to be just that: a heartbeat with goals until expiration. The scent of fresh prey twists in his nostrils, and he nuzzles into Will, dragging his lifeforce to nearly choke on.

Lestat's a messy eater when he is particularly interested in his counterpart. Blood trickles from his mouth onto the skin surrounding the mark, and he bites firmly to keep Will in place. One more drag, one more mouthful. He sees the passing years blurring into bright pictures and a feeling of dread that nearly overwhelms him. He feels like a masochist subjecting himself to something twisted and uncanny, and his eyes roll back into his skull, beholding a man who is a mystery worth collapsing into. Finally, and although reluctantly, Lestat stops himself before the point of no return. He removes his fangs from the assaulted flesh and laps at the smudged blood with his warmed tongue. His pale cheeks wear borrowed color now, painted by Will underneath the rockstar. The vampire is in a daze, peppering the mortal's neck with apologetic, drunken kisses.

@eladead liked for a starter! <3

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆  ɪꜰ  ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ  ᴡᴀꜱ  ᴏɴᴇ  thing  that  made  a  witch  strong,  it  was  her  knowledge  of  the  world  and  all  it's  creatures.  most  of  what  wanda  knew  about  the  supernatural  had  come  from  her  grandmother's  journals  that  she  had  found  when  she  moved  into  the  home  she  inherited.  she  had  spent  countless  nights  sat  in  her  favourite  chair,  studying  the  journals  and  grimoires  by  candlelight.  they  detailed  many  different  things  but  there  was  an  entire  section  on  vampires.  there  were  two  lines  scrawled  in  katerina's  distinct  script  that  caught  her  eye. 'never  trust  beautiful  things  that  fear  the  dawn'  and  'never  bargain  with  hunger  wearing  a  human  face.'

        wanda  had  found  herself  sat  in  a  bar  nursing  a  cocktail  that  really  didn't  taste  the  way  the  menu  had  stated,  she  was  forcibly  holding  back  a  grimace  with  each  sip  she  took  from  the  glass.  her  attention  shifted  when  the  door  open  and  a  fascinating  blond  man  entered  the  establishment,  catching  the  witch's  eye  immediately.  she  averted  her  gaze  when  he  approached  the  bar  where  she  was  sitting  and  words  slipped  from  her  mouth  before  she  could  stop  them.  ❝  you  smell  like  grave  dirt  and  roses.  ❞

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: another outstanding night in a sold-out venue during the unforgettable show of THE VAMPIRE LESTAT. The rockstar likes his visits as a one-night-only ordeal, reducing access to his art to avoid becoming just some commodity for the mortals. In his expensive garments cut up to represent the elegance and venom of the vampire's existence, he delivers a performance that will haunt his fans' dreams. He leaves a carved memory in their minds and loins. Oh, yes, he knows how many of them will moan his name by mere accident tonight when taking out the steam with their mediocre partners. Some of them will tattoo their skin with his logo. He will be in their ears for the subsequent months. He wants the numbers to double and triple, and he will not accept anything in the alternative. The damage from that ugly book will be corrected, even if he has to raze the entire world to the ground.

He enters a bar after a short walk from the venue, dodging the aftershock lines of raving fans. His leather fur-lined jacket rests around his shoulders, showing off a lace bodysuit underneath resembling stained glass. His boots leave prints in the damp ground, and when the door swings open, a whiff of sin slaps the vampire across the face with comforting and wicked familiarity. He crosses to the bar counter to inquire about any VIP sections. Lestat de Lioncourt does not sit with the regulars at the bar. He likes his leather couches, bedazzled nipples, and champagne service.

This bar is a little different, but privacy is due to simple observation. Lying in wait for the bartender's service without compelling his mind first, Lestat leans his forearm on the counter and briefly peers at the woman who speaks to him over at his side. She notices his smell? Lestat smirks as he pushes his nail against the edge of his shades, lowering them to capture a glimpse of his counterpart. Then, plunging his hand into the pocket of his jacket, Lestat produces a travel-sized perfume vial before placing it directly next to her.

"À la rose pour l'homme." He announces the fragrance, a signature from Maison Francis Kurkdjia. "You can keep it if you like it." The vampire grins, tilting his chin to capture her eyes. His is not a secret, but her knowing is quite the news. Lestat prefers that the interaction remains just that: a perfume recommendation.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: what a damning question. Does Lestat love his executioner? Who, with a mere word and the employ of a selfish reporter, destroyed Lestat's warm memory of a house in New Orleans. He turns to face Nicolas, looking up at him after folding a pair of Gabbana shades in front of him. His heart is pierced by these prying questions, but he smiles as he considers their circumstances. With a short nod, Lestat pries open his lips.

"I love him as I loved you before you came to me. Like a memory of what could have been."

Usually it is Lestat who flings provocations Cain's way. The tables have turned. And all for the latter to find reasons not to wipe someone off the map for being what they are; something about justifying why he himself got a second chance, too. Maybe they should thank Lucifer for forcing them together before to wake such interest to begin with, but... no, they sure as hell won't. Cain hears the vampire's laughter sans making any move to cut him off. This is the sound of a dam breaking. He waits for the masses to spill forth. And they do in Lestat's ever-defensive fashion as expected, while the demon peels his attention from the city view in favor of the troubled musician.

No vestige of contempt across his mien, he stands calm, gleans the vampire's face and fails to escape the air of despair soon inhaled. It always carries the same tang he remembers past targets emit with their final breaths. Cain chose his downfall and still fought battles against himself that no one ever recognized. How much worse must it be for someone who did not have a choice? The slowest of nods dips his head at last, Lestat's question falling prey to ignorance.

"It explains a lot." About the vampire's behavior overall. "I'm sorry to hear that." Take it or leave it. Killing Lestat might even count as an act of mercy, given his suffering. But alas, now that Cain received a glimpse of the humanity within that one, it's no longer easy to consider a brutal end. "Don't worry", he adds, then returns to the chair and table just to plant the now empty beverage vessel to the latter's surface. Means to leave the host alone instead of further prying. He heard enough for now. "That stays between us."

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: the word of sheer mockery; this is a feeling Lestat plucks from the words offered to him. It does not matter how civil the demon is, standing by the edge of the rooftop patio, overlooking the city that will be leveled in several decades. No, it does not matter what he really thinks, because Lestat's life is truly none of his business. It is merely the business of the entire world, stretching from the groupies to the ancient vampires crawling out of their hateful nests to chase the star around. What does one demon have to say about it all? Why does Lioncourt give a damn about being harassed by it? He scowls.

"I did not ask for your sympathy." Lestat doesn't want a sorry. An apology from an unrelated party? What is that going to do? Even for the sake of the rhetoric, it does not fix the fact that three hundred years ago a fiend collapsed a blond actor into a pile of rotting corpses with glossy blue eyes and graying, golden hair. He was part of a collection, an heir to a Dark Gift he did not ask for. The fortune that came with it, to this day, cannot fix the utter loneliness of a being that has always been refused the company. Lestat would rather now get high and speak with his ghosts than share the gruesome details of his caved chest with Cain. Christ, what a fucking joke this is.

"I have nothing to worry about. Not from you." Lestat's tongue is laced with poison. Not toward Cain, but this condescending assumption that Lestat's secrets are going to have consequences. The book has blackened his name, made him a caricature for the world to see. Now, in his act of madness, he tours the world to correct the record. He is killing himself on stage, offering every piece of the past he hasn't even shared with Louis. The former lover, a beloved shattered heart, helped him fill in the details alongside another monster who prefers to alter memories rather than admit their flaws. Lestat crosses his arms and averts his face. He doesn't want to look at this sadist.

"Everyone seems to know everything about me. Every day, someone makes something up. You could do the same shit for all I care." Lestat seeks solace at the railing of the patio, looking out again to suck in fresh air that isn't shared with the demon. "I am going to tell my story anyway. Whether you like it or not." Is this addressed to Cain, or the ghost of Magnus cackling on the street level below?

They surely paint quite the picture, drinking wine in the park. Talk about new experiences for a millennia old being, who settles with a vampire in the open at night. Should patrol come by, Cain will know how to handle them. And ensure Lestat won't render them victims to his possibly deadly temper— would be different if he were to attack a fellow supernatural, though. Good, he doesn't have to drink alone. Grabs the bottle passed to him and eyes it with what resembles mild suspicion. Straight out of the bottle mentally throws him back in time, when between killing sprees he downed booze sans bothering to fill it into any glass first.

The thought alone prompts a dry chuckle. Whatever, conveys the casual shake of his head ere he takes the first sip. Not before countering just as nonchalantly: "I hope to prove myself as unworthy, then."

Lowering the bottle's brim from his lips again, Cain fails to stifle an audibly pleased hum. A fine choice! It's Lestat. If anything, that man has taste; something to balance his oftentimes irritating character. The demon returns the wine to its owner, brows inched upward subjects him to a side glance. "You don't want to see me drunk." He might loosen up from it, but there's a downside. "I'll be more likely to lash out if you so much as use the wrong tone with me."

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Lestat watches Cain take his honorable swig with a passing comment that no one asked for. Rolling his eyes, the vampire thinks to himself that maybe this has been a waste of time all along. The contrarian sitting next to him sours the mood by offering a pathetic alternative to a mild comedic jab. The exchange of wit is paused in favor of Cain placing warning labels all about him like a hound asking for a muzzle. He may be a high demon in whatever corner of Hell he crawled out of, but Lestat lacks the curiosity or care to find out. Sighing, the rockstar drapes both of his arms over the back of their shared bench, crossing one leg over the other.

"You are so boring." Lestat offers first, glancing sideways when the bottle is offered back to him. This is a Bordeaux selected from the cradle of its home region, the finest grapes aged and teased with oak. He knows this make very well as he presses the glass edge to his lips, picking up where the demons left off. A generous taste coats his throat as the vampire's eyes flutter shut for a moment. He tunes out Cain in favor of his own enjoyment. God forbid, Cain ruins the fermented aftertaste with his sour reminders. Rolling his tongue over his lips, Lestat swirls his flavored saliva around his mouth, pleased with how it came out.

"I do not appreciate you threatening me when I offered to share a drink with you." The vampire clips sharply as he angles the bottle over to Cain. "If you are such a displeasing company, you are welcome to leave and save me from the tragedy of your character. If, however, you decide to share the rest of this or more, I would appreciate not to be subjected to warning labels." The rockstar stretches his lips into a cold, thin smile. After tonight, he's not having it even with demons who are capable of annihilating him and everything he's built for himself.

"I am not going to filter my voice for you." He surrenders the bottle and slouches in his seat. "I just want to drink."