𝑹𝑶𝑪𝑲𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹

SETTINGS.

[01.] finding privacy in a cramped dressing room.

[02.] cramming into the backseat of a car together.

[03.] slipping into the lonesome alleyway behind the bar for "time alone".

[04.] pulling them away from a party after hours of relentless teasing.

[05.] getting handsy under the table at a fancy dining establishment.

[06.] taking the long way home and pulling over on a dark stretch of road.

[07.] staying behind at the venue after everyone else has left.

[08.] the hotel room door barely clicks shut before hands are on them.

[09.] a tent in the middle of nowhere where no one can hear anything.

NEW TERRITORY.

[10.] finding yourself staring at their mouth and getting caught.

[11.] pulling back from a kiss to look at them, then immediately going back in.

[12.] memorizing the shape of them for the first time with your palms.

[13.] that exploratory first kiss, reserved and shy.

[14.] a gentle first kiss that morphs into intense want.

[15.] feeling the shape of their body through their clothes.

[16.] asking for permission to remove one of their garments.

[17.] finally succumbing to the thick tension & colliding feverishly.

[18.] fumbling with buttons or zippers because your hands won't stop shaking.

[19.] admitting out loud that you've been thinking about this for a while.

HEATING UP.

[20.] pulling them into your lap in the midst of a heated kiss.

[21.] discovering that they're wearing [ GEAR / LINGERIE ] under their clothes.

[22.] kissing away from their lips, down the length of their neck.

[23.] desperately grinding on them through layers of clothing.

[24.] dirty talking directly into their ear to turn them on even further.

[25.] pushing them onto a piece of furniture before straddling them.

[26.] lifting them onto the countertop while making out.

[27.] tugging their hair to expose more of their throat to your mouth.

[28.] the wrecked way they say your name for the first time.

[29.] fabric tearing because neither of you has the patience for buttons.

[30.] removing an obstacle of clothing with your teeth.

UNRAVELING.

[31.] biting down on their shoulder to muffle how good it feels.

[32.] the sound they make when you find the spot that undoes them.

[33.] begging without any trace of pride left and meaning every word.

[34.] their composure cracking for the first time, they finally stop holding back.

[35.] repeating "don't stop" like it's the only language left in their mouth.

[36.] leaving possessive marks in places only they'll see.

[37.] whispering "look at me" right before you take them apart.

[38.] trying to be quiet and failing, so they clamp a hand over your mouth.

[39.] flipping positions so fast neither of you remembers who initiated it.

[40.] their nails dragging down your back hard enough to sting later.

[41.] being told to open your mouth and doing it before the sentence is finished.

[42.] having your hands pinned above your head.

[43.] the desperate scramble to get closer when there is no closer to get.

COMING DOWN.

[44.] fingers lazily tracing the marks they just left on your skin.

[45.] pulling the blanket over both of you without being asked.

[46.] that silent, dazed smile when they catch your eye across the pillow.

[47.] the shaky laugh when neither of you can remember where your shirt is.

[48.] going to get water and bringing a glass back for them without asking.

[49.] lying chest to chest, feeling their heartbeat slow back down against yours.

[50.] the quiet "hey" that means something completely different now.

[51.] "come here" said softly — not urgently. just wanting them close again.

I'm giving the paps my pussycat with no idea I would be in a fang fight less than an hour later.

the failure(s); the many loves of the vampire lestat

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: this is a loaded answer. It slaps Lestat like an avalanche he has been watching from the bottom of the mountain, after triggering it with a swipe of his skis. His hips tilt so that he can rest his hand over the higher half while glaring at the wall of anger. Another fight, another night. It's true. The courtesy of Lestat de Lioncourt is to invite his former lover into the maw of nostalgia: a penthouse with tender, ambient lighting, emulating the later 80s which Lestat missed, buried underground until he was forcibly thwarted out of it. He wants to yell right back, to throw something heavy, like a guitar nearby that he cherishes the most. Instead, the rockstar chuckles. In a room with their attorneys, Lestat wears the same accusatory face. Now, the tables have turned into the cradle of his abode, right in the heart of San Fran. He is exhausted. Maybe from a high, maybe from echoes of the Tooth Team, and Molar March, and Denture Crew. Good fucking God.

"I have no expectations for you, Louis," Lestat offers gently, suddenly. He does not surrender, but he does not budge when he realizes what Louis is still running away from. He knew what he was doing when he settled down with Daniel Molloy in Dubai, still thinking his ex was fucking dead in the ground. The smile spreads, climbing higher. "Not anymore." He cuts sharper. "Burning the laptop, congratulations. You have accomplished so much. And since then, you've done nothing. To me, it speaks louder than any apology." He side steps Louis with a pained grimace. Oh, how his heart aches to still love him. And it twists in Lestat's gut enough to suddenly whip the rockstar around and face his fledgling. "It is my turn Louis." Lestat filters through his gritted teeth; his pupils shake from tension.

"You've had your disjointed fantasy. I hope your fill sated you because I am taking the supper plate now, for I've been famished and silenced for too long. And someone, someone so dear and so close, this entire time, knew there was sustenance an inch away and lied, LIED, Louis, about the plates being empty. Now get OUT, I will have my bubble bath, and it's going to be far more fulfilling than trying to understand your utter RESENTMENT of me." Lestat jerks his head dismissively in Louis's direction.

God, did he welcome it after a while. He’s always been like this– inevitably drawn to his own destruction, finding the most macabre of things utterly irresistible. And it terrifies him too! That irresistible tug in the depths of hell, of wanting to know the monsters when other people would run. Ready to sacrifice himself to the veneration of Lestat’s attention. All he has to fucking smile and Will’s rearranging all previous notions into something that might keep that smile painted on his stupidly beautiful face. 

He’s been brought to the brink of death many times. The first time he had been gutted in a dimlit kitchen on a rainy night. It had been for his betrayal and his games. He had deserved it, sinking fear that he might bleed to death on that polished floor. There had been a second and a third time. A fourth, too. All riddled with scars and bruises and disjointed memories from those times. Each time violence had managed to feel intimate. Each time it changed him, altering whatever control he had, bringing forth all his dark proclivities. His mind carried that rot, and he wondered if Lestat would taste it? All the festering nightmares that he carried around with him. 

It’s a strange sensation. He had wondered if it would hurt. And then, if that would stop him? The answer is resoundingly no. It feels like his mind is being carried from him, and he is just left in the walls of his body, languid and relaxed—no coiled anxiety for the lion at his neck. His skin feels wet, and the sounds are dirty, Lestat unreserved in his meal. There is no fight, only steady acceptance when Will brushes a hand over the golden locks, encouragingly humming softly as his hand grows heavy and eventually it comes to rest right on his nape. His eyes drift shut for a moment, and he is smiling, head spinning and every bit of tension melted from his weary body. There was no pain, only an eerie quietness in his mind, the thoughts struggling to reshuffle themselves into something coherent. He doesn’t even realize Lestat isn’t biting him anymore. He’s too busy sinking into the void, weak fingers sliding down and around Lestat’s arm to tug him closer– to fuse themselves, the distance fucking unbearable. His eyes blink open, heavy and soft, nothing left to lose in clear blue. 

“You’re a mess.” Not quite scathing but something torn on the edges of affection and whatever spell the vampire has over him. There is zero disgust, no residual trauma from his previous life and how he had never liked the idea of anyone’s teeth so close to him, hunger always a repulsion. Instead, it had been his choice and his gift. He can only hope that Lestat is pleased with his offering. His hand reaches to press against Lestat’s cheek, warmed by Will’s blood, thumbing over a streak of red on his cheek. He doesn’t look so poised, regal, and dignified now. He looks like a man torn between his nature and his desire, intoxicated and suspended somewhere in the middle. Will is delighted to witness it firsthand, to be the cause.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Will, Will, Will. A tantalizing human being with a pulse of a human, and an attitude of a demon. With his finger, he weaves a thin thread that eventually takes shape of a three-hundred year old vampire. Likewise, the undead creates a dent in William's mind, filling up the vacant crevices with an aroma of afterlife. They have been growing steadily closer, until one day, finally the gap has been breached by mutual destruction. A part of Lestat hopes that his little moth scorches itself on the offered light. To watch Will become entirely undone from afar is one thing. To be the source of this? The vampire nearly loses his mind when the realization strikes amid the doom contained in Will's blood.

And Christ, does he taste sweetly discordant. The immortal is intoxicated when he emerges for air. His body is on autopilot as it cleans up the mess by firing orders into Lestat's brain: lick up the mess you've made, hold the mortal down, kiss his neck to counteract the ugly craters you left behind, and distract him with your voice against his ear long enough for the injury to heal.

Will's blood tastes like Dante's journey into a frozen Hell. Lestat partakes rather conservatively. Even after being offered the option to lick up a dollop of blood and then sink into a neck, he doesn't overstay his welcome. It is too addicting to drink from people like Will, lest they become an involved, everlasting routine. Not that Lestat would mind that actually. Ah- There it is, the tugging compromise that invites the vampire to latch onto the mortal's neck, tempting to drink, and drink, and drink. His exhale shudders as he buries his nose against Will's shoulder, nodding his head to the hoarse announcement. The man comes back to his tormentor, inviting him to remain in his company a while longer. Lestat obliges even before the request is made. Who does Will think he is to simply abandon him so? It is impossible now.

Lestat chuckles. "You made me so." He can't help it; the blood transforms him into a beast with a need. The vampire leans in closer, tucking one arm underneath Will's lower back to keep the man's fitted comfortably against the hash surface. The other, supports his neck as the vampire rests his forehead against Will's temple. "A church? I've burned churches, mon cher." And yet, Lestat is akin a god walking among humans while draining their lifeforce to continue his journey. Whether mythology would like to defer, Lestat matches the simple description. His eyes flutter from a hand that travels over his face even with a purpose of picking up a loose, bloodied end. Lestat places a kiss against Will's jaw and lightly squeezes the mortal in his arms. He hopes the exchange of heat between their bodies, now that Lestat's gears are turning with Will's blood, would be sufficient.

"I am not going anywhere," Lestat promises. This is a rhetorical offering. It can be taken literary, now that the famed rockstar aligns their bodies together and holds Will in an embrace. Of course, there is now an added layer to this odd partnership. The blood exchange is a ritualistic gesture, especially after Lestat's lips burned from William's attention. He drags his lips to offer solace to the heart that now pumps to make up for the loss. He smiles. "I can carry you over to the sofa-" he pauses to follow the benefit of the impulse. Rising, Lestat steps aside to gently pry the mortal from the flat surface by hooking one arm underneath his bent knees and the other around his shoulder blades.

Easily, Lestat plucks Will from the table, turning to face the depth of the room. What a simple room, he thinks with a grimace, making his way over to the promised sofa. He assesses the space and lowers Will upon three wide cushions. Following behind, Lestat joins the other man on the pinched space immediately. He doesn't stall these kinds of gestures. Now, with Will's back somewhat facing him, the vampire captures his mortal's waist to join their vacant puzzle pieces together. A flame reaches for the moth.

"With blood like that, you could kill someone." Lestat whispers over Will's ear while his right hand searches for the mortal's to interlace with.

A deadpan on Lestat was enough to shake Clark from his own and he watched in a certain startled stupor as the vampire discarded his book, stood, and left the living room.

❝ Cher, I was being light-hearted. ❞ After just a beat to reboot. He was speaking even before his feet began to move him off after the man.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Lestat doesn't stop his departing march until he reaches the doors of his bedroom. He tops by the doorway, slipping on a different pair of slippers. He twists around to face the cambion with a sharp scowl.

"Sometimes, I think I don't know you at all." He blurts out. He is hurt; it is visible in the ways his eyes dance around Clark's face. "I cannot read your mind, I can only hope that you will tell me things. Things that I may be unaware of. I want to know all of you. But I am disinterested playing interrogator, cher. It's not fair. It's cruel." Lestat looks down at he corrected the side of his slippers, after having worn them on the wrong foot. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. It didn't feel like a humorous endeavor."

I looked at my phone that laid on the couch next to me. It still had the text open. I couldn't bring myself to answer it. To face the reason we are distant, that were not together is from my mistake. That I opened up that chapter in our lives by speaking to Daniel, to trusting him, and he broke that by publishing the book. These rare moments where Lestat calls to me, where he is vulnerable in his words. But I cannot hear them, and he would not answer if I called.

I read it over and over. From two years ago, one of the last texts that he had sent to me that we're not filled with anger at me for a mistake I made. I pick up my phone and read the following texts. The disappointment, the hurt, the anger that's laced within the words that he wrote to me. And no matter how many times I can apologize, I know that I will never earn that forgiveness. I type out into the text box, sighing as I hit send.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: endless conversations are typed out in the message box. Some are sent; others are abandoned in favor of drawing blood from a groupie's drugged-up neck. Another trip takes Lestat far away, into a land where his Muses haunt him a little less. He sits on the tour bus, stretching across his favorite couch. His lips are bruised from kisses he does out of obligation. The hot rockstars do this thing: they are famous, they are alluring, and they compete for the sex symbol of the year. Lestat's accessibility, even if limited to certain individuals that hit the appropriate score on the attractiveness scale, is still a myth. A niche commodity. His double does a good job with distractions as he gets high on the rockstar's behalf, but the rest?

The rest of this is spent finding a reason to update Louis on another endeavor. I made it to Chicago today. Wow, the crowd is enigmatic. I am hooked. I am going to buy an apartment here. Make it look like our home in New Orleans. And then he adds later to drive the stake through the heart: pre-Claudia. Hey, I am in New York again. Flights to Montreal are cheaper this time. Do you remember the night when I learned that you never loved me? A harsh text message that is followed by a myriad of apologies, all left on read. Sometimes, Lestat feels like giving up and blocking the number. He flirts with the button; he conjures up courage, and never does.

The ghost haunts him as he squeezes his pillow, pretends to nuzzle the nape of his beloved's neck. And then he wakes each twilight alone, or in an embrace of a woman, or a man, or an individual with a lot of baggage. Never Louis.

And so tonight is somewhat similar, until a ping comes that nearly sends the rockstar into a quaking relapse. He grabs the phone, stumbling over bodies draped over his queen-sized bed. The orgy is still warm, although mortal stamina is quite depressing in the year of twenty-twenty-six. Something about abstaining from having fun. He shoves his tresses away from his face. He reads the text message over and over again, pinching himself to make sure that this is reality. With a smile that splits his sobering face, Lestat quickly types out his reply

"Where are you? I will come over right now."

𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖐𝖞 𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖚𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖝 @eladead

Astarion canted his head to the side as Lestat's fingers traced his collar. He hated to admit how close he had grown to the other, how fond of him he had become, "And why would you want to go and do a thing like that?" The vampire questioned, eyes searching Lestat's for an answer, wondering if he was to get honeyed words or something real. It wasn't that Astarion didn't find their little games to be fun; on the contrary, but at times, he wondered where this was all leading.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Lestat knows this game well: he is a player in it too. The river tends to change its stream based on the mood. Sometimes, it runs toward Astarion, bringing him favor amid Lestat's antics. Other times, like right now, the vampire grabs hold of entertainment that benefits the twisting gut of his ego. He is smiling wider.

"Because I like the way you show your wants." Lestat captures Astarion's eyes; he does not plan to back down even from a mere suggestion. "I like to read your thoughts when you get like this. An undertone of danger." His thumb traces Astarion's chin, and finally, Lestat takes a step back.

"Perhaps I am just cruel. I predict you would do the same thing when the tables inevitably turn, so I like to get ahead." '

“Oh please.” Howard rolled his eyes, stepping aside to let Lestat slink out of the bathroom first. “Nothing worth tattooing from me. I’m not that sort of muse,” he snorted, raking his hair back with his fingers. “And why not? I want to see how a rockstar lives his night; and not just any rockstar either. It’s the vampire Lestat in the flesh,” Howard’s eyes drifted down the figure before him, lingering rather suggestively before they raised to meet Lestat’s gaze.

“I’ve learnt that I’ll never get what I want if I don’t act a little more audaciously,” he replied low, “step out of line here and there. Make my wants known. And the worst I could get is a firm no. Though I think we’ve already established where we are on boundaries much earlier.” Leaning against the wall behind him, he folded his arms and greeted Lestat’s praise with his smile. “Though if my overstepping gets on your nerves, my prince, please let it be known. I do have manners. I just chose not to wear them tonight.”

For a few seconds too long, Howard’s attention fell on the way Lestat’s lips moved when he spoke. There was something so pleasant about it, something so self-assured that it washed over Howard with admiration for the other. It was no secret that there had been multiple attempts on Lestat’s life before this for the vivacity the vampire had subjected his limelight-filled life to. Almost spiteful, his two paws against the world. Fuck everything and fuck everyone -- Lestat will make the world fall to its knees and beg.

What is his reason, Howard wondered. “Sure,” he pushed himself off and sauntered out, offering Lestat a clean bathrobe to slip into. “I’m intrigued by where you’ll be bringing me instead, and in red no less,” he chortled, “a colour I’ve never been seen in, I don’t think. A bit too,” Howard reached for a small towel to help Lestat with his damp hair, “on the nose, I think.”

“I can hear your team looking for you,” he drew in a deep breath as he lingered near the nape of Lestat’s neck. Just to tease, just a little game; they were dancing here and he was well aware of it. Around what and to which piece of music, he was yet to discover. “Rustling around like little bugs. I’m impressed at their dedication. Have you thralled them all, or were they simply mesmerised by your magic? I can never tell, you see.”

“A lot of the things your kind can do, I can do marginally, though most are impossible for me.” Vampiric suggestions, flight, fire, turning. It made Lestat’s kind seem superior to his, though it didn’t bother him if it was objectively true; after all, what mattered in the end is who of all of them could survive the nuclear death of the planet when push comes to shove, no?

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Lestat glances at Howard over his shoulder as he finally leaves the shower cabin to rid himself of the dirty memory of his costume. He shrugs the droplets from his shoulders and runs his fingers through his soaked tresses. "Contain your worship, we haven't gotten to the best part yet." He smirks, turning his back to Howard while accepting the doting care. The vampire actor is used to being spoiled; it is what he deserves, after all. The world owes him an apology, a century-long one at that, for doubting his ability to hold back his horses and drink less blood. He learned his lesson from his rockstar year, during which, in a brief intermission in his career, he was a prisoner of an ancient vampiress. Upon return? Someone else wanted to dim his shine. Of course, this is not news. Where the Sun shines the brightest, someone will always come with an umbrella, secretly plotting to cast the same dark shadow over the source of all life. What was that movie? Project Hail Mary? Whatever nearly caused the end of humanity, and of course it takes a handsome blond to save the world. Yes, that's how Monaco was.

"Oh, Howard," Lestat shakes his head as he stretches his limbs, accepting the gentle embrace of the robe held by his co-star. He glances at the well-mannered man through the curtain of his tresses, lifting his chin. "I know you've got manners. We could fuck right here, and I wouldn't think you're just paying me tribute," Lestat twists the robe's belt, smirking up at the taller man. "I think you are adorable." The vampire reaches up to press his hand to Howard's cheek, applying gentle pressure to turn the vampire's face to a chair nearby. "Now get a robe and sit, my knight," he continues to play along while sweeping his eyes over Howard. He guesses they will need something vibrant to underscore the undead's paleness. He doesn't have long hair to serve as a necessary accent, but the hollows of his eyes will do. Those deep sockets house a gorgeous pair of apples. Lestat smirks.

"It's not on the nose, cher, when you pretend you don't partake in immortality." He walks around the clothing racks to pluck a basket of new makeup. Some of it is still inside their plastic containers, waiting for knowing fingers to rip them open. While occupied, he feels his hair tended to, canting his head back to accept Howard's touch with an audible hum. A breath kisses his nape as he parts his lips, almost seduced by the lingering words. His mouth stretches into a knowing grin. Lestat likes being in control of consequences, and as he briefly eyes the vanity, he imagines it could hold his weight and a thrust of wide hips. He lets that image fester into a bundle of threaded thoughts that he sends to Howard's mind like a quick email. The vampire moves on from the topic quickly as he gathers a handful of eyeliner sticks.

"A vampire has a lot of power to compel whatever action he wishes, yes, but it doesn't take vampiric magic to convince people to do what you want. The charm of it, Howard, is in me. Simply. I am famous, hot, and I have a tongue that serves the ears like, well, anything else." He narrows his eyes at the vampire and nods to the chair again, clicking his tongue against his molar. "Sit." Lestat orders firmly, advancing toward Howard with measured patience. When his co-star is seated, Lestat narrows in to slide into his colleague's lap.

"All it takes is a lesson of nature. Humans are creatures of pattern." Lestat presses his fingers against Howard's chin, guiding it up to see the man's face enveloped in the warm light above. Assessing Howard's features, Lestat gently swipes his thumb over his cheekbone. "Handsome," he mutters sweetly, lowering his hand in favor of popping open a liquid burgundy eyeliner. "Look at me," he whispers to him as if sharing a lullaby. "Don't talk." Then, he cants the eyeliner brush to mark the angled wings first to measure where the ink would go. Then, taking a pause, Lestat unveils a rich, crimson cream eyeshadow, which he smudges over Howard's eyelids before buffing them out with a brush. Lestat's movements are gentle as he works around the vampire's eyelids, outlining his waterline and smudging just below his eyelashes to create a red, smoky effect.

Then, returning to the eyeliner, he draws the wind across, drowning the burgundy serpent in a red ocean. The eyeshadow catches the light, showing off particles of glitter. He does both eyes equally, each element shared with the precision of a trained painter. Finally, he moves to mascara that matches the eyeliner. "Every vampire has their abilities they get from a maker, or an ancient one who shares their blood in the right amount." The Dark Gift grants Lestat flight and fire, the kind of fire that is capable of burning down an entire courthouse. He smirks to himself.

"If not flight, then what is it? You have a different background; that is clear." Lestat twists the mascara brush to gently rid it of excess product. "Look up," he instructs while dealing with Howard's lower eyelashes. Then, he finishes up with the upper lid. The eyeliner is avant-garde, crossing the boundary of an everyday look. On Howard, it brings out his eyes; a worthy match to the outfit Lestat already has in his mind: an unbuttoned red shirt with rolled-up sleeves, wide matching trousers, and a dark-brown belt to capture his waist. The vampire bites his lower lip, shifting in anticipation in his co-star's lap. "Will you show me?" He smiles, reaching just behind Howard to grab a handheld mirror before turning its reflective surface to face the vampire.

"What do you think?"

"Oh, stop it!" They glide over the stage as if dancing is all they've ever done in their entire lives. It's been a while for Annie, though. Especially traditional stuff. "Yeah, no, you're right", Annie confirms Lestat's assumption with a sobering expression. Not sad, just... well, this isn't something to be wrapped into giggles or lighthearted beaming. "Having fun wasn't anywhere on my day planner for a long", and a sigh later, her brows curve upward.

"Long time. Tragic, isn't it?" Why does she sound like she's 100 years old by saying that? She cringes at her own thought, not that being old is bad but a woman in her 30s shouldn't sound like it. Especially with the media industry promoting the harmful standard that women her age are the average citizen equivalent of 90 or practically dead. Momentarily so distracted, she accidentally steps on Lestat's foot. Immediate shock causes her to pull back a little, blink down and then shoot him an apologetic, doe eyed look and gasp:

"Shit, I'm sorry! I-" Geez, Annie! Lestat is a vampire, he sure as hell doesn't even feel that. Or does he? Well, this is the question. Her mien distorts into one of skepticism, nose crinkled, head turning maybe about an inch to the side without eye contact breaking. "Can I ask you something?" A beat of hesitation. "Do... do vampires feel any pain at all? I mean, the way humans do."

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: having fun and providing fun are two different things. Lestat understands a busy schedule. Entertainment remains an exhausting, all-consuming endeavor. Although, for once, with Vought involved and all of its terrifying politics, Lestat is happy that the spotlight is somewhat off of him. To the majority in Europe, he is a famous actor who carries an odd wind. People don't care about witches and vampires when there is a monopoly on superhero abilities in the States. He finds it comical that America is cannibalizing itself, but he still misses the memorable moments of his life here. New Orleans remains his loyal grounds, even if he stalks them in his lonesome now.

Lestat blinks as Annie's foot steps atop his shoe. Expensive shoe, a little annoying dent to deal with, but that is not the end of the world. He smirks at her outburst, raising his eyebrows high as if offended by the prospect of being hurt by a woman who can easily melt a vampire with her gaze. He gasps, tugging her against him to conspiratorially whisper in her ear: "Mademoiselle, what horror, I am in so much agony, what are we going to do?" He sways her over to the side, aware that the heroine decided to go elsewhere on the stage. No matter, the vampire is familiar with these minute pockets of dissociation. He only hopes that the dance is good enough distraction to satisfy her. As she asks him her question, Lestat decides to lead the dance deeper into the stage, with the ancient curtains no longer serving their unveiling magic. He slows their movement there, planting them in one spot to sway in a gentle pendulum back and forth.

"Mmm, that is a loaded question," Lestat starts, lifting his chin to an answer he already has bundled on the tip of his tongue. "Physically? Yes, of course. We are former humans, even if our abilities are, well, superior." His thumb gently brushes over the underside of Annie's palm, touching her wrist while he holds onto her hand. "I can ignore a scratch on my face, but it's a scratch that bleeds. It hurts the way a papercut does. Noisy, tiny thing." Lestat hums. Nothing hurts more like the inevitable embrace of the Sun. When he tried to surrender his life in a desert, he felt every prickling sunray twisting and tearing at his skin.

"But it becomes numb, you know. You almost forget you get stabbed if you've been stabbed enough." The dance resumes its travel, now coming closer to the edge. "Emotional pain is somewhat different. There are certain things that we never recover from that mortals are," he pauses, finding a word. "Accustomed to. Loss, love, pride. Your own death. You have the luxury of moving on because you don't have much time. You are busy. Us?" Me? "We have all the time in the world to think of every detail, of every possibility, and perhaps come to terms that, hopefully, in another century, we will find peace." The agony of loneliness. Search for a face in a crowd every millennium.

The dance comes to a stop, and Lestat tugs Annie's hand to press a kiss to her wrist. His nostrils flare. "Perfume? Good choice."

dean wanted a detailed answer to the question or he wouldn't have asked. deep down, he wants to know every detail. the more time they spend together, the more he tries to imagine the kind of human lestat was. what he was like. there's stories written in novel after novel. ones he admits that since meeting him, he's read the ones that were interesting enough to keep his attention. some of them were absolutely dime store garbage in his opinion--but the ones detailing lestat's life? word for word. every detail gone over. trying to figure out more of him than what met the eye in the beginning. and now, finding out things he never has had the guts to ask.

slowly, those guts are coming around. so, he starts with the most obvious one. tell me what it's like. he often tries to figure out which details are real or embellished for the readers sake. or for immortal beings to poke at each other from a distance. sort've like the weirdos on the internet that thing it's entertaining to bug someone they'll never see face to face. and would never have the nerve to do so if they did.

in their own little private car? the truth's asked for and given. dripping with details put exactly how one would expect from lestat himself. makes a fond smile and a gentle stare encompass the mortal's expression. making it clear that dean's absorbing it and imagining, in the back of his mind, going through the same thing...

..only he has.

but it was very different. different type of vampire. different type of time. dean grins when lestat grins. he can't hide that the mere mention of his pulse and the glint in the vampire's eyes doing something to him. speeding up his heart. quickening the ghost of want that's always lingering in the corner of his mind for the vampire. dean hasn't let anyone around him know how deeply he's sunk. or how often he comes here seeking out the blonde. but he's getting noticed by the watchful eyes of the hunters that know his name. and the one that shares a bloodline with him especially. thing is?

he doesn't care. and that's dangerous.

★・・・・・ Lestat eyes are pinned to Dean's lips as they pluck and maul the cherry's ripe and pliant curve. The tip of his tongue traces his upper lip, almost tasting the fruit in the hunter's mouth. He wonders if the fruit tastes different to the human and the vampire. Lestat recalls its taste, its shape, and he surely enjoys the scent. And yet, there is always something off about it. Something uncannily distant, as if he is tasting a picture of something, recalling the memory of it from a long time ago. The vampire shifts a little, sitting up as if awakened by this thought. Dean's blood would taste like cherries if the mortal man ate enough of them. A gentle aftertaste right in his vein. An uncomplicated feeling. Lestat's eyes descend the hunter's face and land on his neck, where he watches his skin shift and throat bob during their conversation. He feels a profound craving for a taste. It is dangerous to waken the vampire's beast with mimicry of human routine. No vampire eats cherries and shares them with a mortal in a private far of a long train ride. Not without leaving the same car covered in blood. And yet.

"I am aware of worse monsters." Lestat smirks, interested in how Dean's fingers thread a cherry stem. He is distracted when the hunter announces his experience. He stares wide-eyed for a brief moment, utterly confused by the past tense of the experience. He hasn't felt a certain presence in Dean, the kind that helps vampires to find each other in a crowd of dozens. Talk about privacy! He tilts his head and reaches to press his knuckles gently against Dean's cheek. Life kisses his cool digits, and the vampire chuckles.

"What do you mean ended up becoming one yourself?" The vampire narrows his eyes. "Are you a vampire now?" Lestat tilts forward to search Dean's face. The hand that touches his cheek now gently pulls at the hunter's chin so that the rockstar can access the sight of his deep, green eyes. "I don't feel it. That can't be real then." Lestat scoffs. "What happened?"

I was enraged. I was enthralled. Lestat had condemned me to a Hell of his own making. A gilded cage that inspired wonder and intrigue, but remained a cage nonetheless. And, like a fool, I had entrusted him with the key and assumed he would be responsible with it.

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Lestat looks about them: recognizing the walls which surround them, the ceiling which protects them from the rain banging outside on stained-glass windows Lestat commissioned specifically for himself. The rosemary incense wafts from the bathroom where a bath slowly fills up with foaming, warm water. There is life around him when he is captured in a deadening grasp of stupor. Finally, his eyes snap back to Louis, and he raises his eyebrows, shaking his head with surprise. Did Louis not get it the first time?

"Non, Louis. Just the ones you should finally hold yourself accountable for. But if it makes you feel better to blame me for all of it. I will take it. I will take it again just for you." His shoulders relax, and he glances toward the bathroom door, sitting slightly ajar. "Are you done? I am due for my soak."