pairing: lestat de lioncourt x oc!reader x louis de pointe du lac
summary: wife turned lamb.
warnings: angst, mentions of domestic abuse and rape, mentions of blood, s*x work, death. (let me know if I forget something!)
disclaimer: OC story!!! english is not my first language, so sorry on that front. and this is my first published piece, thus please have mercy on me. this is also not always accurate to either the chronicles or show. might be shit but at least not ai. thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it!
Tis the following night after the outing with Louis and the stars seem so much brighter than they usually do. She had not seen Lestat before she went into her coffin, her husband had been out and about, leaving both wife and lover alone at home. Now, she had awoken not too long ago, the sky dark and yet so bright.
She sits curled up on the balcony armchair, in another of her long and dark silk robes, her gleaming hair draped over her slender shoulders and her gaze directed up at the stars as if they hold answers to something she had yet to ask. New Orleans buzzes with life, humans strolling around and driving in their automobiles. Lovers discovering the feeling of intimacy and companionship, children being put to bed, friends ready for a night out of debauchery, performers hurrying to work in the late time establishments.
Her chin rests on her drawn up knees, arms around her legs as she listens to the sounds of the city with a content and slight tug at the corner of her soft lips, brown eyes slightly narrowed as they stare up the evening sky.
She then notices the movement from the corner of her eyes, seeing the puff of smoke exhaled and traveling up into the air like a set free spirit. How she wished to be that whisper of smoke, to disappear into the world. Louis takes another drag of his lit cigarette, the end burning when he does so. He leans against the balcony doorway, gaze where hers is, directed heavenward. He too was clad in one of his robes, comfortable in the home they shared. Even more comfortable since the tension between then had been much defused.
Her gaze, after a brief glance at the source of the smoke, turns back to where it had been before. The silence stretches on, neither speaking since there was nothing to speak of in this calm moment, no desire to break the peaceful moment. Her feet on are on the edge of the plush outside armchair, toes wiggling slightly in enthusiastic contentment. Moments like these remind he vampires how young she was when turned, where her mind had stopped, how much her humanity lingered in her very essence. Louis almost smiles at it when he catches the movement from the corner of his eyes.
“What is there? The man on the moon?” A curious and yet slightly mocking voice sounds. Lestat, also clad in one of his robes, steps onto the balcony to stand beside Louis. His brows are pinched, lips curled downwards in confusion as his piercing eyes flicker over the night sky as to see what the big deal was. There was no big deal. Its simplicity was its beauty.
Louis exhales the smoke with a small amused huff, glancing at Lestat. “Stars just seem brighter than usual is all.” He replies with a small quirk of his lips. Her gaze shifts over to Louis at the words. So she had not imagined it? The stars did seem brighter. At least to them.
“They look the same as always.” Lestat replies carelessly, shaking his head with a small frown of his lips. His one hand lazily waves away at the sky, as to dismiss the entire subject before he snags the cigarette from between Louis’s fingers. Both her and Louis share a short look at Lestat’s dismissal, but it is brief and goes unnoticed.
Lestat inhales the smoke deeply, keeping his eyes on Louis’s face in silent appreciation before it shifts to his sitting and quiet wife. Those big brown eyes looking up toward him, that gleaming hair which darkness was equal to the dark of the sky. She smiles small at him in silent greeting, a gentle and warm thing of undeserved affection. And it is met with him lazily and uncaringly looking away, downward at the street below. Her smile immediately falls off her face, the usual slight pout on her lips when she too adverts her gaze, tucking her knees closer to her chest.
Louis watches it all silently and per usual, he feels sick to his stomach.
“I have to attend to some things. Will you be at the Azalea?” Lestat asks the darker skinned man, gaze affectionate and almost tender. His free hand not holding the lit cigarette moves to Louis’s cheek, knuckles caressing the top of his cheekbones.
Setareh watches it all silently and per usual, she feels sick to her stomach.
Louis only nods, returning the gaze with a slight smile of his own. His voice is calm when he speaks, not giving into much of the physical contact of the man he loved because the wife of that man was too dear to him to be as cruel. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Bien. À plus tard, cher.” (”I will see you later, dear.”) Lestat hands the cigarette back to Louis, hand lingering on his cheek. He fleetingly gazes at his wife, affectionate gaze swapped immediately by century old warning and control and she unconsciously makes herself smaller on the chair, lowering her gaze once more in submission that was too much instinct now than anything else.
Who was she to defy the lion? The wolf killer. Her beloved husband.
After flicking the cigarette butt off to the side, Lestat vacates the balcony (not without letting his hand wander down Louis’s back) and they are once left alone with the sounds of France’s child city. She watches with quiet disdain how the cigarette butt pollutes her beloved balcony, watches it’s light fade and she feels an odd sense of companionship with the discarded, flicked off and dimming thing.
Louis sees the silent frown on her face, the displeasure written over her soft face and he thinks that it had absolutely no place there. It makes him blurt out his next words thoughtlessly.
Her gaze snaps up to his, displeasure swapped for confusion when brown meets green. Go where? He could not possible mean to come with him to that place. Sure, she was no stranger to it but she did not have to be around the whoring. It was not her place.
“To the Azalea. And now-… I know you ain’t got nothin’ to do in those kind of places, but it’s not as bad as the other ones on the street. It’s more classy and there are spots and seats where its more… better suited for a lady like you.”
A beat passes as the two blink at each other, his one hand keeping him leaned against the doorway. Just then, she tries to bite back a grin but cannot help the tug of the corners of her lips. Her hand clasps over her mouth and then, giggles erupt. A sweet and melodious sound that harmonises with the sounds of the city and his own chuckles. The words had sounded amusing coming from him, him calling her a ‘lady’ somehow having made both of them erupt into sweet sounds. The giggles die down after a bit, a gentle smile lingering on her face when she loosens her grip around her knees to let them lower down on the plush of the chair.
“Well, the offer is very kind, Louis. And I am sure it is a much more noble place-”
“I don’t want to leave you here.”
It makes the smile fade, soft eyes looking up into his. She felt touched, that he cared, that he wanted her around. It had been a while since even her own husband has wanted her by his side, if it was not to show off her beauty and poise. Louis wanted her around for her, wanted her to get out the house, to live a little of her immortal life instead of sitting around inside those walls, waiting like a porcelain doll for its keeper to play with.
“I do not know if my husband would want me in a place like the Azalea, Saint Louis.” She admits quietly, still always trying to not anger or disappoint her husband, no matter how much he did it with her. Louis pushes off the doorway, arms crossed when he unhurriedly walks to lean back against the railing. He briefly glances down at the people walking and tending to their evenings before he looks at her again, gaze suddenly more determined.
“Let me deal with that. He won’t care if it’s me.”
She wants to protest. To grab him by his beautiful and gentle face and tell him, yell at him: ‘Yes, he will care. My simple act of defiance, of listening to your words rather than his, will make him care.” But she does not. She only nods, silently.
He acknowledges her nod with his own, a silent agreement. He then leans down, picks up the dead cigarette butt from the balcony floor, fingers gentle with it, before he leaves her be with thoughts too old for him.
She is dressed in the finest clothes her husband could adorn her in, his beautiful porcelain doll clad in fine silk, a dark emerald green colour and dark silk gloves hiding delicate hands. Her hair up in a twist is as proper and chic as always, a stark contrast to the women’s hair inside the establishment Louis had driven her to in the automobile. He holds the door open for her, eyes following her when he lets her step inside and it is just as well visited at the streets beyond its walls.
Louis de Pointe du Lac had an eye for business. The Azalea was a place of opulence, no expanses spared, tastefully done decorations and refurbishments and the women confident and healthy as mortals can be. Sparsely clad and yet with each their own elegant, some are draped over men’s laps, other’s speaking in hushed tones behind their fans. Seta stands by the door he lets fall shut, hands clasped around her small purse as doe like eyes watch everything with silent, albeit reluctant, intrigue. He steps up beside her, hand resting on her lower back to guide her through the place, to make it know that she was in fact not for sale, not for the taking (if her appearance and demeanour did not already speak for itself).
“What’d you think? Shabby?” He asks her with a slight smile, like a boy asking for approval, his piercing eyes flickering over her pretty features. She returns the smile, all the while feeling his touch through the silk of her dress like a branding. It was not a place to touch her. No man touched her and least of all that place. But she reminds herself that she trusts Louis, that he is a man with a taste for other men. So she stays silent and only shakes her head. “Non, not shabby.”
His smile widens a bit, guiding her through the place. She hears the men acknowledge him, nods and words exchanged briefly.
A slightly shorter, robust and darker-skinned woman comes up to Louis, steps confidently unapologising and it is a certain freedom Setareh wishes to have.
“Mr. Du Lac, Anderson’s somewhere around here wantin’ to speak to you.” It is clear she holds a certain respect to Louis all the while seeing herself equal to him. Seta’s heart squeezes at her own thoughts and she unknowingly averts her gaze to the floor, still standing so fragilely soft. Louis’s glances at Seta from the corner of his eyes before speaking to the woman.
“I’ll talk to him in a bit. Got a table in the courtyard? She likes the jazz.” That makes both Seta and the other woman look at Louis. The lady surprised at the lady he had dragged inside, one that looks a bit too much off good standing and a little too white for him to be with. And Seta? She’s just surprised he remembers her love for music, especially the kind of soulful jazz that New Orleans had mastered.
The lady quirks a brow at Louis, then at Seta (who returns the look with big and warm eyes), then back at Louis. She takes a step back and lets her eyes almost scrutinisingly wander down Seta. She lets out a quiet and slightly attitude-filled ‘Mhmmm…’ before stepping aside to let them walk past. “Got a few tables. Maybe not the kind she should be sittin’ at, Mr Du Lac.”
It seems like silent judgment, or simple warning disguised as care. Bricktop Williams was the Madame of the house, appointed by Louis himself. And where else would she get that much security and position, as well as five percent ownership to combat City Ordinance 4118, which was meant to attempt segregation within Storyville. This was a good place for her, much better than other places here on the streets.
Louis only gives the Madame a fond yet exasperated smile before tugging Seta along by her waist. She silently follows, her and Williams letting their gazes linger when she’s being pulled along. Louis speaks when her gaze breaks off the other woman.
“She’s the Madame of the house, all bark and bite but she don’t bite much. At least not me. Just doesn’t want me gettin’ into any trouble.” He speaks to her as he opens some door and leading her down the stairs, and for some reason it feels natural. It feels like he’s always tugged her along, kept her by his side like an equal instead of behind him while talking over her head. It felt nice.
“She seemed to not like me already.” She replies when he keeps his hand on back, guiding her over to the courtyard. It was beautiful. Not the kind of place where she would think that more primal things were going on in the rooms above. The performers sang through voice and instruments with passion and love for their short lives, the people danced, drank, conversed and let life stop for a brief moment of enjoyment.
Louis lets out a small laugh at her words, noticing her steps slowing, her eyes widening and his laughter dies down some when he sees the warm lights reflect in her brown pools, like silent wonder found again in a wonderless life. Ripped out by the roar of a trumpet, he briefly shakes his head, shaking off any thoughtless thoughts and gently pulling her along once more towards a vacant table.
“She don’t know you. Only sees how you look.” He replies, quieter now in spite of the music and sounds of chatter. But he was right beside her, then behind her to pull her chair out and let her sit. Her gaze locks onto his again when he moves to not sit across her, but beside her, the chair scraping over the ground when he pulls it there. He sits down, one elbow resting on the back of his chair and body angled not to the performers but toward her.
“What do I look like?” She asks in reply, a small tilt of her head when they gaze at each other under twinkling lights above.
“Fine.” His answer is plain, shot out like a bullet and it makes him immediately continue as to not create any confusion, sitting up some in his seat. “I mean, like a fine lady, of good standing. And, well… white.”
“I am Persian.” She protests quietly, a faint pinch between her brows when she is being called white. Was even her identity stripped from her now, her heritage, her parent’s blood? Was she truly only Lestat’s blood now? Blood of his blood, with no remains of herself.
“Yeah, no, I know. But you got whiter skin than most white folks around here, that’s all I’m sayin’.” He clarifies, his own head tilting unconsciously to mimic hers. Her gaze softens some (it was already soft) and she nods in acknowledgement of his words. He was right after all.
They are quiet for a moment, her gaze flickering back to the stage and she cannot help the small smile on her lips at the genuinely passionate performance. Her and Lestat had that in common, something they could agree on. Music. It did transcend everything. To her, it was spiritual. She could feel the smoke of the candles vaporise into the warm air above, feel it vanishing into the other sphere or realm or whatever one wants to call it. It was a nearly mystical force, serving as a lifeline for this community, a way to connect with ancestors and history. A tool that blurred lines between past, present, and future. A fuel and act of unity in this rebellion against oppression in the era of Jim Crow.
While she watches the performance, Louis de Pointe du Lac watches her, infatuatedly enamoured. He watches her in a way Lestat had not done in decades. With silent awe, wonderment and gentleness. He watched her to watch her, not to observe her. His fingers twitch by the back of his chair, wanting to at least caress that glowing cheekbone. But some things were too beautiful to touch, to sacrilegious to disturb when she so clearly was enjoying the happenings around her.
He notices a gaze on him (how could he not with his heightened senses) and his own gaze shifts up towards the overlooking balconies. Upon it stands no other than Thomas Anderson. The man smokes his cigar, tumbler of bourbon in his hand as he leans against the railing. He looks right at Louis, gaze almost pensive when he recognises the woman beside Louis, the same woman Louis had gazed almost lovingly at. Anderson knew Setareh de Lioncourt. Had met the beautiful and quiet wife at the arm of her husband, remembers her once in a life time beauty and the quiet demeanour. And he also remembers how she was not the sort of woman to be in such places alone, let alone without her husband, let alone with a man of Louis’s skin colour. Louis sighs through his nose, gaze shifting back to Seta. His hand moves to her shoulder, feeling the hot skin underneath his palm when he gets up, not before speaking to her.
“I gotta go talk to Anderson. You gon’ be alright for a short while?” He asks her, hand slipping off her shoulder to adjust his suit jacket. She is broken out of the spell, looking at him through thick and dark lashes and silently nods. She was taught better than to protest.
“I’ll be quick. Order somethin’ to drink for yourself, tell em you’re with me, alright?” He tells her with a nod of his own, raising his brows at her since he knows her too well to know how she would not have even thought about quenching any sort of thirst if not allowed so. Again, she silently nods. And with a last lingering look, he leaves her and heads back up the stairs.
“Ain’t that Lioncourt’s wife?” Anderson greets Louis, a small tug at the corner of his lips when he thinks and hopes that Louis finally shows his true colours, instead of the admired unorthodox business mind. A man who does not have any integrity when it comes to married woman. Someone who finally has a crack in the armour that are his morals. Much like Anderson himself.
But Louis? He just huffs amused through his nose, hands in his pockets when he unhurriedly walks to lean against the same railing, briefly glancing down at Seta who sits there with a smile on her face and sparkling eyes, clapping along when the song switches to the next one.
“Yeah. He’s meeting us here.” At that, Anderson’s expression twitches. He too leans against the railing, puffing his cigar when his eyes linger on Seta who straightens up when a waiter approaches her, kindly asking the sweet girl for her order. Louis sees the look in Anderson’s eyes when he side glances at him, recognises it as one of the few looks men get in this sort of establishment… or anywhere for that matter. Lust and hunger. It makes him want to rip out his eyes and feed it to the crocodiles in the swamp. “Pretty young thing. Voice like an angel. Those are the worst ones though, I’ll tell you that,” Anderson continues, huffing amused and then coughing from the smoke of his own cigar. “Angel on the streets, devil in the sheets, if you know wh-”
“Now, Mr Anderson, Miss William’s said you wanted to speak to me about something in particular.” He pushes off the railing, smirking almost coldly at the white man beside him. Anderson stops speaking and lets his gaze linger on Louis before letting out another amused chuckle, raising his cigar holding hand in a placating manner.
Meanwhile, Setareh murmurs a quiet ‘Merci’ to the waiter when he returns with her glass of-… well, the sweetest thing the waiter had to offer. She hated the taste of alcohol and much rather preferred the sweeter things in life. She sips on the reddish drink in her crystal glass, gaze glued to the stage. She sits poised, elegantly as always with her back straight and legs crossed in an angle.
“Que fait ma femme dans un bordel?” (”What is my wife doing inside a brothel?”)
She almost chokes on the sweet drink, brown eyes snapping to the left where her husband stands without any sort of amusement on his face. His expression was as dangerous as it came, threat, disappointment and awaiting punishment all morphed into one cold and nearly murderous look. She blinks up at him like a caught child, drink lowered into her lap. His gaze shifts down to the drink and his nostrils briefly flare (in anger or smell of alcohol).
“Louis m'a emmené avec lui. Il ne voulait pas que je reste seul à la maison.” (”Louis brought me along. He did not want me to be alone at home.”) She explains meekly, hands tightening around her crystal glass. She shifts in her seat, suddnely feeling so exposed, so dirty and shameful as if she herself had made use of the brothel, even when she had only gone with Louis. But man was man, no matter his preferences. She had gone with a man that was not her husband. And like a well conditioned dog, her eyes well up with tears and she looks at her keeper with a troubled gaze. “Je suis vraiment désolé. Je ne voulais pas te faire de mal, Lestat.” (”I'm so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you, Lestat.”)
He sucks his teeth, glancing at the performers, the dancing people, the sheer happiness and lightness when everything about them suddenly feels so heavy. She looks down, sweet face frowning up some, lips in a downward pout like a child. She felt guilty. But worst of all, she feared the punishment. Would it again be rough hands on tender skin? Or would it again be exile into her coffin, locked away inside a basement to starve for a week or two? Or perhaps he’d have something new in mind, get creative. She did not know. She never knew.
Having wrapped up his short conversation with Anderson, Louis joins her downstairs. His smile slightly fades when he sees Lestat in silent fury, and the angel cowered in the seat she had sat so happily on merely moments ago. “What’s the problem?” He asks utterly confused, hands by his sides when he steps up to her chair, sitting down on his own. He glances at her, how she avoids his gaze and sits there so fearfully.
“Did you bring her here, Louis? To this place of sin and whores? My wife?” Lestat’s anger is aimed toward Louis now, the latter a lot more durable than her since he knew only a speck of her husband’s anger. Louis’s gaze hardens some when she places her glass down onto the small, round table. He sees hoe dejected she is in her every move and twitch and he hates it. He hates how he wanted this to be a nice thing, to get her out the house for her own entertainment instead of Lestat’s. He would have even asked her to dance with him. If only Lestat had not come.
“It’s like that inside maybe, yes. But not out here. It’s just music, Lestat. She likes music.” He replies, shaking his head in sheer disbelief over the fact that a husband would not want his wife to enjoy herself with something as mundane as listening to a performance. He glances back down at her once more, a gentle hand placing on top of hers in her lap. It makes her fingers twitch underneath his palm, his one enveloping both of hers clasped ones. A silent sign of back up, a silent ‘I got you. I’ll fight this one for you.’ And she loved him for it.
Lestat’s jaw is clenched so tight when he sees it that it might shatter his teeth. “You have no dominion over my wife, Louis. Lève-toi, Setareh.” (”Get up, Setareh.”) He snaps at her, a hand latched onto her shoulder. She winces almost inaudibly at the nails dug into her subtle skin and it makes Louis stand up now, pushed off the chair. From above, Thomas Anderson watches with silent intrigue.
“Lestat, come on. What’d she do wrong right now, huh? She’s with me, she’s outside, away from all that shit inside and we knew you’d come. Why can’t we just enjoy some time outside together, listen to some music. She ain’t do nothin’ wrong.” His voice softens some, trying to sway the other man in his favour. “You know that’s right. Come on. Just sit down, have a drink, listen to the music. Don’t punish her for something like this, cher. Just have a good time…for me.” He uses all the right tones, all the right words and expressions. His hand briefly squeezes his arm, a very brief touch out here in public as to not rouse any sort of suspicion.
Meanwhile, Setareh sits between them, wishing to be locked away in her coffin or in some sort of time loop from two minutes ago where she sat alone, listening to the music and people’s joy, sweet drink in her hand and without phantom pain lingering in her body. She hates that Louis can calm Lestat down, hates the ‘for me’ part. Why could Lestat not sit for her?
Why did Louis suddenly have dominion over her husband?
A few long beats pass before Lestat huffs and puffs, sitting down on the third chair across from them. He crosses a leg over the other, arms crossed and his jaw tight. His gaze on Seta is less punishment now and more warning. ‘’One more screw up and you’ll see. Just try to get out the mould I made you.’
Louis lets out a relieved breath, sitting back down beside her when the moment is diffused. he flags down the waiter with a hand, silently ordering his usual for him and Lestat, because of course the waiters knew Lestat was frequent here. The whores did too.
She sits there stock still, perhaps even in derealisation, something to use whenever her fear took over. She was in no mood for any music anymore, the moment and night ruined by her pumping heart and quivering lower lip.
“Stop it.” Lestat tells her calmer now, albeit still cold in his previous anger. “I won't touch you tonight. Being in this place makes you as filthy as the rest of them. You are no longer clean.”
“How about you shut the fuck up?!” Louis exclaims at him with pinched brows and a frown on his face, quick to defend Setareh once more. But Seta? She lowers her gaze once more, her heart shattering for the umpteenth time in her immortal life. One would think she would get used to it. But she immediately chokes up and thick, salty tears roll down her flushed cheeks, flushed from embarrassment and the heat of the moment. She stifles her sobs and it makes Lestat’s eyes roll. He would not punish her physically but he was doing it emotionally. Take away her pride, her purity she so valued, make her feel dirty.
“Hey, you want me to take you home?” Louis’s voice lowers, almost hushed when his head bends down slightly, a gentle hand coming up to wipe the tears off her cheek. For a moment, he glances at the wet fingertips, marvelling at how different she is to them with the watery salty sadness coming out of her. No blood. No gore. Just human. She sniffles, wants to say yes at first, but refuses to be of any sort of burden.
“I will take a carriage.” She murmurs quietly and Lestat wordlessly exhales through his nose (more a sigh) before he rises from his seat already.
“I will take her home. You stay and tend to your business.” He tells Louis, buttoning his suit jacket up before extending a hand toward his wife (habit rather than care). She looks at his hand and silently places her own into it, getting up as well. Louis does to, mirroring her, fingers twitching as to pull her back. Before Louis can even protest, voice his concerns of Lestat hurting her, Lestat holds her hand in his like a firm vice. “I will not touch her, you have my word, even if she is my wife, to do and treat as I please. But pour toi, mon cher, I will leave her be tonight.” (”For you, my love.”) Lestat says as if he was doing Louis the biggest favour, granting some sort of grand wish.
Setareh is pulled along before Louis can even ask her if she needed something, if she really did want to go with her husband, even when he already knew the answers. He stands there with slumped shoulders, looking after angel and devil.
It is oddly quiet inside the carriage. No yelling nor quiet threats, no lectures or any sort of reprimanding. It makes her all the more nervous, hands kneading in her lap as she sits there stiffly beside him, looking out the carriage window. He too sits silently, albeit much calmer than her, watching the passing scenery.
“You have bewitched him.” He suddenly speaks, matter of factly and she is not sure if she likes that tone, no matter how calmly spoken. She swallows, gathering her courage to look over at him, his side profile, that beautiful side profile.
“Quoi?” She whispers shakily, not able to control the lingering quiver of fear nor those wet lashes of hers.
“Il te défend maintenant, mène tes combats à ta place. Il me défie pour toi. Il ne voit en toi que de la pénitence. Ça passera.” (”He defends you now, fights your battles for you. Defies me for you. He finds nothing in you besides penance. It will pass.”)
It will pass. It echos in her mind.
She remembers how Lestat used to be, much like Louis now and she thinks, yes.
