⁀➷ cupid's arrow

       A soft chuckle escaped Daniel from where he sat in his chair, surveying his newest subject. Where did he fucking begin with this? While wrangling Lestat himself into that same chair was proving to be an insurmountable task at present, surrounded by his entourage and all the bright lights and excess of a mediocre rockstar as he was, something equally as interesting had just dropped into his lap from the sky above. Lestat's mom. Someone who knew Lestat before the blood, the vampirism, before the gregarious ego and Byronic overreaction to his and Louis' book.

       Why she had showed up here on tour with him was anyone's guess — Louis hadn't even mentioned Lestat's mother during their sit down in Dubai — but this was Daniel's first route in, beyond the puff documentary set-pieces, and he was determined to sink his claws into it. No matter the unsettling contrast between his new subject and the human production team that surrounded them both. From the way Gabrielle was eyeing them, Daniel could tell what she was thinking. He'd had to work to curb those exact same thoughts over recent months.

       There was a brief hesitation as Daniel weighed up his starting point, pushing his sunglasses back up over the bridge of his nose. “ Gabrielle: would you mind taking me through some of your own background first? I understand you brought Lestat up in late eighteenth century France and were turned by him later, but before he was in the picture— I can imagine being a member of the aristocracy at that moment in French history was difficult. Even more so for a woman. Could you tell me more about that time in your life? ”

& yet his first question, seemingly innocuous as it is, twists their fair face into a scowl. gabrielle has spent the last two centuries burying memories of a miserable mortal life. to excavate them now to be gawked at & rummaged through by vampires & humans alike is not something she is eager to do. & her tongue hesitates for a moment, runs across fangs, carefully constructing a response that she hopes will satisfy the interviewers curiosity.

❝ the house de lioncourt was already derelict when i was wed into it. my new surname came with a title & lands, yes. & certainly we were better fed & better off than the peasants. but still, it was a difficult time, & our comforts were few. ❞ gabrielle does not wish to dwell on the countryside manor that had been more prison than home for so many years, & she quickly shifts the focus back to her son. he was intended to be the film's true subject, after all, & it is he that blooms beneath the spotlight, possessing a talent for captivating audiences that gabrielle has never shared. ❝ i bore eight living children before my death. lestat was my youngest. my last. ❞

i'm going to be tagging tvl spoilers / until a week or so after the finale episode.

please don't assume that the events & characterizations we see in the new season will be automatically adopted into my portrayals. i will likely wait until the end, then begin to assess what i want to keep & what i don't, especially regarding gabrielle.

"You're starin' off again. Got somethin' on your mind?"

He was just another man exerting his control over her, and even if there had been some kind of pleasure in the moment, the horror persisted long after it was gone. She hasn't told anyone about her maker, about how she'd come to be a vampire. Armand had never asked more than a few qualifying questions and they didn't share in the coven, not really. It was more suffering for the sake of suffering, never satisfied by the blood, living off scraps and in rags, separate and cursed by their blood.

Since leaving, it really hasn't come up. Marie, dressed in the clothing she'd stripped off her most recent victim (never mind the blood on the collar) is sitting nearby to Gabrielle, allowing the warmth of the flames to heat up her skin, though it barely does. She leafs through a dusty old novel from Magnus' library, though she isn't really reading. She is lost in thought, her mind wandering. She doesn't even hear Gabrielle the first time, and the second time, she startles out of her trance. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

Her reddish brown eyes flicker to Gabrielle and she might have blushed if she could properly. It is just the two of them - she and Gabrielle had gone hunting earlier and left Lestat and Nicolas to do whatever they desired in the city. They're likely return before sunrise and if they don't, they'll simply stay over night and venture back to the castle sometime tomorrow when the sun goes down. Sitting with Gabrielle is comfortable. There is nothing awkward about their silences, but she doesn't mean to ignore her if she does want to talk. "My mind is elsewhere, I'm afraid."

it is there, enveloped in all that light, that her son & his lovers continue to play human until dawn. making music, making plays. such endeavors of mimicking mortal artistry now seem redundant — even outright childish — to the new fledgling. what calls to her now lies well outside of paris, outside of any living city. she longs to take to the wilds, to see how fast & how far her new body could truly take her. & gabrielle would happily have left all this behind the very night she had first drank of the blood. but a part of lestat remained tethered to this place, & she to him. she has not yet found a blade sharp enough to sever either cord.

marie helps. unlike lestat, she expects nothing from gabrielle, asks only permission to stay in the maiden's coffin beneath the tower. she appreciates the crumbling castle in a way gabrielle cannot, a significant step up from the grave as it is. older than gabrielle, but with no love in her turning & given precious little opportunity to use her dark gift despite all her years with it, gabrielle is loathe to see such a powerful creature confined so, that only her mind may be free to wander where it like.

❝ tell me where. what draws your thoughts ? ❞ gabrielle could look, cast into marie's mind as she has learned to do & see for herself. but she would rather hear it from the beauty's own lips. ❝ where is it you could go, if you could go anywhere you wished & do anything you liked ? because you can now, you understand. you are free to choose for yourself.❞ gabrielle is not armand ; she is no one's maitre & no one's maker. & no one will ever bind marie again.

Not often does Armand fall simply in tow with Gabrielle - yet, the way she takes charge of their private moment seems to direct him without second thought. No denial is given in the removing of his clothing, no scorned look to deter the other way. It’s curiosity that controls Armand within this gentle intimacy. Eyes lingering on fingers at his tie, keen to the guidance of his arms upwards to remove his tunic. Standing almost bare before her does not feel odd. Yet he can’t quite name the feeling it does bring.

Even as he removes his remaining garbs, he watches. Blazing eyes taking in the act of opening the dress. How intricate it all is. Learned. An art all in itself, now repracticed for him.

He sets the breeches aside with the upper garments. The only time his eyes seem to drift from the other is to stare upon the ragged pieces. The dirt and grime. Squalor. How had he become such a wretched, ruined thing. The same legs that wandered the streets in those very slacks had once been wrapped in brightly coloured tights - fresh and clean. A statement of his vibrant life. A being that cared for themself as much his laws. That was before many a horrid thing however.

With clothes abandoned, Armand waits. Wipes idly at his skin, brushing away any possible residue from his rags. The thought of disgracing the gown before him itches at him unpleasantly.

❝ Where has this been worn? ❞ A gentle question - one might say timid, if such a word can be paired with himself. As with all art that Armand finds himself gazing upon, he too yearns to hear the stories linked to the garment.

but gabrielle's pleasant musings on the nature of individual beauty & its potential positive effects upon immortal existence are distracted by armand's question. & her mouth hardens somewhat, tone turning bitter with unpleasant recollections. ❝ this ? this one i brought from italy. my mother gave it to me when my marriage was arranged. i wore it often as a new wife in auvergne, back when i still had dreams of pleasing my husband. ❞

as she speaks, her hands gather the fabric & create a short ring from the chosen garment. gabrielle then gestures armand to put his arms through the gap, & when he complies she guides the bodice to his ribcage & releases the skirt, allowing the silk to cascade down & flow about his legs.

it's a bit large for armand, loose about his chest & hips. but gabrielle quickly moves to take up the laces & begin tying the excess into place. ❝ i had the seams let out to make more room in the bust after i had my first two babes. shouldn't have bothered. i didn't wear it again, & it would have fit you better the way it was before. but no matter ; we can have it taken in again. ❞ & with some effort gabrielle is able to arrange the garment so that it lies smooth against the graceful curve armand's spine. she takes half a step back to admire her handiwork, a subtle smile indicating she is quite pleased with the results. ❝ how does it feel ? ❞

Nothing like being told to wait in the car for 'a few minutes' thirty minutes ago.

no, those dark lines are there to stay. for as long as he breathes and for some time after that, too. and with lives such as theirs, often too fast and too short, leaving such a permanent mark on each other is no small feat — it makes edward’s head spin a little. he can’t believe he gets to keep this, keep izzy, close and snug at his side; it’s not often that men like him get to have something good. something nice, more rare and precious than any fat prize.

he doesn’t thank god, there’s no room for that in the mess inside his head. he doesn’t know what dropped izzy hands in his path, what force he ought to hold responsible for such luck, but he’s ready to call it a blessing.

     of course edward could not speak such things aloud ; they were cutthroats now, outlaws, wanted men, & this life they had chosen was both cruel & brief for those who were too soft of heart. it would not do for them to permit such overt gentleness, lest they get used to such rare & privileged comforts. & izzy clears his throat before he speaks again, forcing his voice into a gruffness that he does not feel, not with edward's fingers still folded into his.

     ❝ well, good. because it's too late to take it off now. ❞  his thumb brushes over the fresh tattoo again, & for an instant izzy swears he can feel the touch on his own face, as if the identical shape on ed's hand is somehow preternaturally linked with its twin. ❝ they do say you never forget — but often regret — your first. ❞

"I CAN SEE THAT." The apartment felt darker than usual. As though the florescent lights had intentionally dimmed themselves to fit Izzy's mood. Despite the late hour Frenchie considered opening a window- moonlight would still be more cheerful than whatever this was. He was halfway to the kitchen (one of the only rooms with a window) before the sound of a bottle clumsily hitting glass had him turned back around.

so, now the bottle's almost empty, glass whining with a threat to shatter when izzy sets it down too hard on the coffee table. & izzy's feeling no better after downing most of the fifth ; even frenchie's comfortable touch, intimate without expectation & usually so grounding, does little to steady him. he's too far gone. ❝ you got something. in the mail. 's on the counter. ❞

[Choke] Sender asks Receiver to choke them + reverse — @musecraft // Gabrielle de Lioncourt

Momentary lovers, lost in the expanse of desire. The simplicity of it. The ease.

How pliable he feels. Amenable to the vampire before him. A necessity to control melting away as slender fingers explore soft skin. As lips slot together in the dark of the night. He follows the lead of the other, body aching to fall into submission. Aching for her, for Gabrielle in all her handsomeness. He needed nothing more than this single night of adoration.

❝ Monsieur… ❞ A whispered title, reserved yet fitting for the current tide of lust. A touch to Gabrielle’s elbow, hand smoothing down to take hold of her own. He lifts their hands in one finding the expanse of his own willing throat. Armand stretches his neck, head falling gently to one side - pliant. And presses the other's fingers into the flesh of his skin. ❝ Ce soir, je t’appartiens... ❞

& it is privilege indeed, when armand guides white hands to his throat, charges them with safekeeping of his very breath.

& with permission so sweetly given, gabrielle abandons all thought of restraint. their fingers close over armand's trachea to pause the flow of blood & air beneath his skin. lithe body surges forward in the same moment, collides with the other in the dark to press a leg against the juncture of armand's thighs. ❝ for me ? ❞ lips brush the shell of his ear, new fangs growing long as they hover just above their grip, drawn to that point where the blood pools in his arteries. enough space is made for icy blue eyes to meet burning amber, but still gabrielle's hands do not loose their hold. ❝ all of you ? ❞