while i'm in this fuckass writing mood here is a loustat snippet from a fame au i have been working on! i present this to the void:
a red carpet ( a reckoning) snippet
Through all the sleepless nights and sweaty, haze-filled mornings imagining himself at this moment, Lestat didn’t think he truly prepared himself for what he was about to get himself into. He felt memories swell up behind his ribcage, something helpless and mad giggling its way up his throat.
Flashes of agony strike him suddenly, thrown back to San Jose, 10 years ago. Lestat will never forget the way the blood slid down his eyes; the scars on his forehead wouldn’t let him. Most of all, Lestat will never forget the nauseating way his world had tilted, balanced on the pinky finger of Louis de Pointe du Lac. The words that had spilled from this mouth, acrid and poisonous, would haunt Lestat for the rest of his life.
Lestat loved him then, desperately and ruthlessly. He had loved Louis from the bruises on his cheekbone, for the shattered glass embedded at the crown of his head. He had loved him down to stale scraps Louis threw his way, he had loved him. There is calcite growing at the base him, scratching over the rot in his chest that breathes in time with his damned lungs.
Carnality spills out of the seams carelessly stitched on his side, and its gentle sacrament mournfully mirrors whatever dead thing hides within Louis’ eyes. Lestat wishes with an almost clinical intensity to reach in, drop jerkily to his knees, and spread his fingers over the soft remains of Louis’ soul in a plaintive question. As though he is a child, as though he does not remember the exact shape of it as it shattered underneath his palms.
Where does the blame lie, in a wasteland? Is it is, irrevecably and always with Lestat, his heretic heart that still beats underneath the grease paint cracking over his ribs? Is it gleefully with Lestat, maw dripping with blood, eyes blank with cruelty? Sinking into the meat of the sin only when it has gone rotten, the enlightenment of sorrow that trails betrayal like a lost child. In his most euphoric moments, Lestat twists the knife and tears the canvas. He licks up the column of the neck of a girl 10 years younger than him and pictures Louis’ shaking hands, his ghost hung frozen over the murder scene. The blame sits congealed at the floor of himself, perhaps this is unavoidable. But rage, incandescent as it is, rises dizzingly, escaping up to the higher altitudes of Lestat’s brain. Soaking, marinating. The picture frame zooms out, and Lestat sparkles, Lestat snarls. Lestat mauls and loves and offers up ritualistic prayer on his knees everytime he dreams of the blood that spills out of Louis like fate. His heart whines, a helpless dog. Ritualistic prayer, offerings of entrails. Lestat latches on to this, broken and fattened mother’s son that he is, and has yet to let go.
