GOD'S FAVORITE ARCHIVE

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: the scent of blood draws Lestat's attention. Despite his state, he is used to damage. Wounds heal from drinking blood or sleeping in a coffin between venues. The vampire expects a new hoard of his undead brothers to come banging on his doors, demanding his attention for whatever accountability they expect for him to acknowledge. He does not care about the consequences to revealing to the world that the vampires exist. There are worse monsters than those who dwell between the shelves of passing years in the night. There are monsters who devour each other with word alone.

He watches Higgs fill a plastic cup with his blood. He smirks, a bit offended that his bandmate doesn't offer a wrist or a neck while his heart is beating so close to the damaged rockstar. Not that Lestat would be effective with a bite considering the damage done to his body. It would be messy. Inconsiderate. He itches for a cigarette. A long one, with a menthol undertone, or maybe another artificial strawberry that would carry away this agonizing soreness in his shredded skin. Lestat exhales, lifting his eyebrows while leaning the back of his head against the wall: an only thing that supports him from slumping down and bleeding out on the floor in the back room.

"Bunch of morons," he mutters, observing the cup with a drying mouth. "I'd like to kill them. I caught a glimpse of their thoughts. They are resting in some cometary behind a monument. A residence is there, a dirty, little rat nest." He coughs up a lungful of pain and pauses between words. Blinking away the murmuring diversion of his attention, Lestat furrows his eyebrows. "I say, we pay them a visit."

He considers telling him no, just to see how he would react, but ultimately decides against it. There's no fun to be had in kicking The Vampire Lestat while he's down. Petty as it is—and unmistakeably so—he just doesn't enjoy it as much as a good ol' fashioned mule's kick. Not that Lestat would much appreciate being likened to an ass. He'd probably prefer something a bit more pretentious. A Selle Français in tight leather stirrups, chomping at the bit in its mouth and happy to kick at whoever is leading it by the reins. French fuckin' show pony.

❝ yes, spooked. not quite scared, so .. ❞ fragile shrugs, that smile curled on her lips only growing. ❝ spooked. ❞ it's not the first time assumptions as such had been made, though admittedly higgs typically was out of ear shot when the question was poised. ( after awhile fragile stopped correcting the people they delivered to. simply bidding them goodbye with a smile & nod of her head. she knows how women like to gossip, especially as they witness a young woman with an attractive young man as her companion. ) unfortunately, in a post-death stranding world, people find any way to entertain themselves, even at the detriment of causing such reactions as the one in front of fragile.

considering they can go on & on about the subject, fragile takes the lead & puts a pin in it. ❝ it's fine, ❞ she reassures. ❝ — and not a big deal. people are curious, is all. no harm done. ❞ says the woman who has caught herself looking at him longer than she used to; laughing at things he says that otherwise would make her roll her eyes. fragile can see what's happening from a mile away, yet she's afraid to voice it. she knows she's scared.

He should consider himself lucky that mommy and daddy are no longer around to grip him by the balls and interrogate him about his intentions with their daughter, but then again, careful consideration was never really his bag. Not because he doesn't know better, but because, at the end of the day, he doesn't care nearly as much as he should about repercussions, few as they are. People talk. Higgs knows this. Fragile knows this. These are two, fully grown, consenting adults who are conscientious of the fact that people will, if given the chance, talk about anything.

It's fine, Fragile says. People are curious.

And aren't they just.

dialogue prompts from eat the ones you love by sarah maria griffin.

you can't cry here. everyone watches everyone.

your sympathy pass ran out weeks ago.

where would be far enough away for a new beginning?

flowers are dead the second they're cut, aren't they?

what kind of help do you need?

you know what they say about cold hands: warm hearts.

our pain is a non-phenomenon.

you look and feel really familiar.

i'll try not to give you too much trouble.

we're going to be such good friends, you and i.

i'm happy to go wherever you send me.

this is where the magic happens.

i wish i had something to take notes with.

when you're just used to something, you kind of forget how intense it can seem to someone just seeing it for the first time.

we talk about life and death a lot.

i will literally do anything you say.

i won't be so weak again.

don't you have anything to say?

this place is fucked, and you know it.

you make it sound worse than it is.

i'm glad you two are close. it's good to see.

i only want to keep you safe.

thank you for this whole time. for the adventure.

flowers can say nothing at all, or everything.

there's nothing good about me. not a cell.

can we still be penpals?

i'm no better than a man.

please tell me to fuck off if this is inappropriate.

the silence out here has made me weird.

work is only kindling for our lives, not the whole fire.

it is a deep feat to move with grace when you've been granted little to none.

i don't like you smoking.

i'd be the last one standing in this place, i swear to god.

you look so beautiful this way.

not everyone deserves to live.

making friends as an adult is brutal.

you have very straight energy to me. i mean that with total respect.

i don't read books written by men.

you have to learn to love somebody in the quiet of themselves, as well as the noise.

drinking alone is grim. i do it, but it doesn't feel good.

i've never really broken many rules.

you're pretty compelling, yourself.

i feel like i left ____ there to die.

i can't fix anybody. i've got my own shit.

something happened, and i don't know what to do.

is this going to hurt?

you're taking this like a champ.

are you ready, or do you need a break?

you might want to close your eyes.

i wish i could explain better. i've never had to explain before.

i'm gonna have to get my shit together, but not tonight.

nothing put up can't be torn down again.

i can't believe i'm still trying to save ____.

i didn't think you had it in you.

i haven't had sex in over a year.

if you can see the ocean, you can see the whole world.

silly can feel good.

i'm not above being cute.

it feels so nice to be away.

as far as i'm concerned, i am on holiday.

this all feels a lot like a date.

you're my favorite, anyway.

i'm manifesting. setting good things into motion.

it's like you just disappeared.

don't be classist.

you're very almost always right.

if you don't go, this place will eat you alive.

you can feel the sorrow of a thing that's gone without wanting it back.

weird and terrible things can be right in front of us and we can look right through them, right? most of us have to operate in a fog to survive.

sit down here for me for a second.

you're never the same two days in a row.

thank you for being so understanding about all this.

If's a mighty strong word for you to be complainin' about it as loud as you are right now, Monsieur de Lioncourt. He is merely offering you his services at the low, low cost of an explanation. That is, and I quote, meagre as shit. Just because beggars can be choosers doesn't mean they should be. It's what their own investors and backers, few as they are, would call a bad ROI. You would know that if you actually went to any of the meetings.

"A failure to plan on your part does not, in fact, constitute an emergency on mine," Higgs says, unusually level headed for once. Really makes a man wonder if he behaves Like That on purpose. "But it's impossible to write, read, rehearse or do any goddamn thing else with you bitchin' a whole hissy fit and a half, so here we are."

He kneels down beside him to take a look at the wound.

"Now how in the God fearing, Jesus loving, Mother Mary and Father Joseph ever loving fuck did you even manage this, anyway? Huh? This looks fuckin' awful." So much so that he actually does what he's told for once, giving him the literal shirt off his back to stop the bleeding. "Next time you wanna wear my shirt, just ask."

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: the gash is a work of a rusty knife or at least thrusts of a taloned hand. They may have been aiming to rip Lestat's liver out. The bleeding isn't the worst part. The worst is the feeling of vulnerability that strangles Lestat, looming over him with an ancient warning. He is not invincible just because he is hopping around the stage, singing songs about his ex, and now fraternizing with other oddities in his band. Satan's Night Out is going to be a night in for a while, but Lestat doesn't plan on canceling the tour or rescheduling the dates. Millions of fans. Billions of listeners. The aim is to conquer the world.

He grits his teeth, irritated by Higgs's inability to simply shut the fuck and get one thing, ONE THING, that is more useful right now to the Vampire Lestat than being scolded. Instead, Higgs decides to find a middle ground and offer Lestat a shirt warmed by his body. The vampire eagerly accepts as a matter of principle, but he gives Higgs an undecipherable glance for it. Balling the fabric, Lestat leans back to shove it against the injury with a pained grimace. He presses the back of his head against the wall behind him, breathing out heavily. He can rehearse, he just needs a minute. Another minute, one more, maybe five. Six.

Lestat counts in his head to ground himself. His eyes flutter closed as his guitarist's shirt drink in his dark blood like a famished sponge. The humor does not escape him and he offers Higgs a small, lopsided smile. "Shut up." He mouths, tilting his head to the side to stare at the bloody trail he left behind. "Get a cleaner." He adds, applying pressure. Any more, and Lestat will stuff himself like a holiday turkey with borrowed threads or rip out the rest of his innards to finish his job.

"Got jumped. About time. We've been getting trailed for a week now." Lestat finally manages to speak once his immortal body recalls its superior predisposition. The reversal happens gradually when Lestat hasn't had anything to eat recently. Taking a slow breath, he continues. "Group of vampires. I dealt with them, just took me a bit. They are relentless." But Lestat is most cruel. Come morning, they will burn like crucified sinners. His smile widens at the thought. It is torture, a horrid kind, but in a moment of true rage, he couldn't stop himself from punishing those who disagree with him. And they attacked first.

Higgs grins, wider than he should. "Never would have guessed."

It's a real bitch of a thing to try and work first degree murder into the budget, but they manage just fine, and it sure as shit isn't because of them. Even still, this is getting to be a much bigger problem than they were expecting it to be, and with that comes two things: the excitement of never really knowing what might be waiting for you on the other side of the street, and the complications that would come from having to cancel the tour very, very prematurely. For all their whinging (a word Jack is so very fond of using), it is, at the end of the day, something they're all a bit too invested in, and the apple of an immortal's rotten eye is not to be plucked from its garden without due caution. Or a suicide note.