#indiscrminately

𝐈𝐓'𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐇𝐈𝐌. his scent, the way his presence felt right before he entered a room. lestat was distinctive, unlike many of those who shes encountered in her thousands of years. in truth, they tend to blur together after such a long amount of time. names, faces, events, human or vampire ... it hadn't really mattered. most, if not nearly all, were forgotten the moment they left her presence if they were of now importance. akasha had no time for them, not energy for it either ... she was the mother to the damned, the original, yes but she was also her own woman. not just a deity, of sorts. ( her god complex unmatched. akasha genuinely felt no one was like her, no one ever would be. if it weren't for her then none of them would exist as they now & that, in itself, was worth worship for. ) ❛ lestat, ❜ calls the woman with a growing smile on her lips. one leg crossed about the other, hands with done nails folded about her lap. ❛ i didn't expect to see you here tonight. ❜

her  daytime  shows  are  few  and  far  between  -  for  all  that  eliza  waxes  poetic  and  longs  for  the  sun,  her  lifestyle  doesn't  give  her  much  time  to  absorb  it;  today's  performance  is  an  exception.  acoustic  and  settled  beneath  the  mid-morning  sunrise.  she  feels  like  she's  floating  by  the  time  she  reenters  her  dressing  room  to  a  newfound  delivery.

when  it  comes  to  flowers,  she  really  isn't  picky.  when  it  comes  to  lestat  ...  he  listens.  really  listens.  the  bouquets  of  the  blossoms  all  along  her  dressing  room  are  reminiscent  of  a  past  life  -  one  filled  with  healing,  sunrises,  sunsets,  and  paths  overflowing  with  familiar  flowers  such  as  these:  bursting  wild  orchids  of  various  colors  and  builds,  poppies,  hyacinth,  carnations,  common  crocus,  milkthistle  ...  little  do  they  know  of  the  life  soon  fated  to  find  her.  (sicily  and  a  spurned  childhood  feel  so  far  away  from  what  she  now  knows.)

as  always,  the  gesture  holds  deeper  volumes  than  the  flowers  themselves  -  this,  however,  melts  every  last  resolve  held  in  her  chest.  there's  a  certain  vulnerability  poised  in  eliza’s  limbs  after  her  gigs  -  immediately,  she  wants  lestat  here  with  her.  implicitly,  he  is  here.  intrinsically  ...  she  ponders  his  offer.

eternity  -  shared.  everlasting  love,  promised  and  assured  by  someone  who  reveres  her  more  than  humanly  possible  -  eliza  has  never  outright  dismissed  the  possibility.  mortality  continually  flashes  before  her  eyes  in  the  shapes  of  her  loved  ones,  and  still  ...  the  flowers.  she  can  smell  the  flowers.  a  tame,  pollen-drunk  bee  peeks  out  from  the  cuspids  of  a  crocus  -  there  is  good  in  this  life.  there  is  destiny,  there  is  life,  there  is  death,  and  there  is  choice  -  she  chooses  him.  she  thinks  that  she'll  tell  him  that  when  she  sees  him  tonight.

send me ‘ 🔴 ’ to generate a bloody scenario between our muses. one. your  muse wiping/licking blood from my muses lips.

he wasn't often asked the question: who did you kill? or better yet, who did you devour? upon returning from his hunts. most everyone had the decency to pretend he was simply away, enjoying a brisk stroll through the woods. nobody was none the wiser. however, this time the evidence sits plainly by his lips, a thin stream of blood oozing down his chin. the flavour was still piquant on his tongue, fresh and pleasing to taste― he was in no rush to cleanse his palette. of who: some human, a brigand actually, who they had a particularly violent run-in with hours ago. one lulled into a false sense of security that they had escaped, a show of mercy.

he wasn't about to confess to the others that he had sought them out and snuffed out that flicker of hope. another boar, that's all it was.

of course, there was no fooling another vampire.

with a satisfied stretch, astarion shrugs lestat off, purposefully blasé. “ oh, a vampire never reveals his secrets. why, jealous are w―? ” his tease is abruptly cut short, as a thumb runs over the corner of his mouth, swiping the blood away in a singular motion. the space between them halved, intimate, and what's more, he's left to watch as the vampire brings said thumb to his own mouth, sampling astarion's dinner for himself. the air between them feels charged with some desire or other, as his eyes fixate on the small flash of tongue. something unaddressed.

when @indiscrminately gestures a guess as to astarion's kill, he's almost right on the money. a smirk twists the bloodied corners of his mouth.

night island has become his refuge. it was the one place that didn't have louis haunting the rooms — he could hide away in his villa, tend to his wounded heart ( and pride ), without a physical reminder of all that had happened. his memories, his thoughts, the desperate anger and grief brewing in him was more than enough. he didn't need it written on the walls too.

now, it's also a haven away from the book's popularity, from the rise of lestat's voice on the airwaves ( although, the night island shops have sold both book and album ). he's dissected as much media as he can. he's watched lestat's singing career from a distance, wants to dig his fingers into his brain to see what makes him do what he does.

it's not wholly new — that feeling. but what he hadn't prepared for was lestat's arrival on the island. he feels his presence first and while curious , he wears a passive mask for the other vampire. he wants to see him, but the admittance would never slip. he greets him in the parlor, where he assumes he's been led ( if he'd followed any of his helpful staff ). for a moment, he takes in the sight of him silently, before taking a step forward.

❝ i hope you don't expect celebrity treatment. i'm all out of red carpet. ❞ and patience. ❝ why are you here, lestat? ❞

@indiscrminately liked for a starter !!

niketcore

u would think so, and yet. this is actually alex antithesis because.

1. he wouldn't want to fix him, he wants to Conquer him, whomever this "him" is

i  actually  think  that  their  intersection  in  creation/performance  is  something  huge  for  the  music  industry  of  the  1970’s  –  80’s  (especially  as  they  grow  and  adapt  through  the  decades  past  that).  lestat  definitely  leans  more  glam  rock/post-punk,  and  by  choice  eliza  is  more  folk-rock  (dependent  on  how  angsty  she’s  feeling).  it’s  important  to  remember  that  she  had  a  grossly  successful/rushed  +  exploitive  career  even  before  meeting  him  -  her  team  was  a  mess  and  she  didn’t  always  have  creative  say  in  what  she  put  out,  but  regained  her  independence  over  time  -  especially  after  becoming  a  vamp.  this  is  all  the  more  reflected  in  their  music  together.

putting  glam  rock/post-punk/new  wave  +  folk  rock  together  comes  pretty  easily.  those  genres  compare  and  contrast  in  ways  that  are  so  beautifully  similar,  but  lestat  +  eliza  work  together  because  of  the  devotion  and  love  that  they  both  have  for  the  art  /  craft  itself.  i  like  to  think  of  all  these  songs  are  an  amalgamation  of  an  eternity  of  time  to  create  together  (^:  diff  eras,  vibes,  genres,  etc.

i can see you enjoy having the upper hand for once. // @indiscrminately //

there's a slow kind of grin that comes to armand's lips at lestat's words. he knows that tone, he knows the teasing edge to it. lestat was a hurricane, a wild fire at times. a complex beast, but one that armand, in truth, when it was all stripped away, enjoyed being in the presence of. it was impossible to look away. to not be drawn in and caught up.

"for once, yes." so much weight to that one word, a world of implications-- the idea that so rarely, maybe even never had there been a time when armand had gained that control, that upper hand. it was a knife to the skin, but one he relished. the wickedness of it was addictive. a sour taste, that eventually settled to sweetness.