The new Lestat book going to be like:

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The new Lestat book going to be like:
@Anne Rice
you need to stop
opheliaximmortal:
leliowolfkiller:
“–––_palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” _
“Trying to pick people up with Shakespeare again?”
‘I need not pick people up, you should know that by now. They tend to come to me. It’s happened before.’
“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”
‘And yet vulgarities are no replacement for charm.’
No, the directors of Download haven’t been banging their heads too hard. In fact, they’ve got nothing to do with this brainchild.
if you dont think Louis would do this you’re wrong
“–––palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”
leliowolfkiller replied to your post:look at my fancy new icons. in celebration, punch…
UR BACK ARE YOU NOW
back & ready to mingle.
cant stay away from bb bianca.
The remark is one that takes Narcisse by surprise – it strikes him as an odd thing to say, it’s an odd thing to know, and his fingers tighten a little about the silver top of his cane. But Howard is quick to assume that perhaps rumours are circulating. It’s really not implausible that he has been recognised, that him and said red-haired friend might have been spotted together and this chap caught wind of it, considering how careless Howard is with his affairs these days, considering all that him and his lover have gotten up to. He’s beginning to wonder if this is some ploy to get money from him. If so, this would not be the first time he has been approached with bold propositions of blackmail, and it almost certainly won’t be the last.
So Howard struts ahead a little. “I have many friends,” he replies, flatly, and it’s truth, sort of. “Artists care nothing for respectability.”
The rhythmic clink of shoes and cane on the cobblestones fills the air and Howard looks ahead, not that there is much to see. Narcisse knows these streets like the back of his hand and they’re all the same really, all drab and grey and black and smoggy, and teeming with awful people almost as bad as Howard himself. These streets are for the dregs of London society, the sordid underbelly, home to the sorts who one only sees at night. It’s for the addicts and the thieves, the girls who chirrup lewdly at the passers-by in the hope of earning lodging for the night and the boys who like boys, the ones who chase the dragon and the ones who chase money or fame or girls’ skirts. No wonder Narcisse frequents this area so often.
He’s rather intrigued.
“Go on then.”
Lestat hears the familiar thump-thump of the heart quicken in the other man. His heart beats a little faster, a little more irregularly, than most, but the mention of his little French friend makes it jump. And it makes Lestat smile, his lips still tucked over his teeth, hiding those razor pointed fangs. His hands fold behind his back and he lets his legs swing comfortably as they walk side-by-side. He can hear the other man’s thoughts like a gentle hum in the back of his mind, so used to this invasion in his own head he has learned to suppress it, to let it simmer rather than listening to every single word. Back in Paris there had been a place that had been theirs, for their kind and their kind alone, and Lestat had been the star of the show, but he had no doubt of the same thing in London. He’d heard whispers and he’d heard stories, he hadn’t cared much for it before, but why not give this man one night of supernatural heaven? How interesting it would be to watch him, to paw through his thoughts as he sees them all. All beautiful, all seemingly young, somehow, despite their age and whatever age they were turned. He glances down at the other man again and a little smirk comes to his lips. ‘I should think we’ll need a Hansom Cab, Stratford is a way to walk,’ he says. ‘I am sure you have money.’ Lestat is rich. Wealthy beyond belief, beyond the monarchs of this little planet, and yet he’d rather the other man pay and he doesn’t doubt that he will. Vile, little man with his vile little thoughts. He’ll enjoy the way they look at the theatre, but will he like their cold flesh and pointed teeth?
his head is arabic melodies and his fingers are calloused from work in the fields long ago. success is a state that the youthful and UNAMBITIOUS stand OUTSIDE of.
sweeping the glass of red wine to his lips delays his PETTY JUDGEMENT.
Lestat is none of those things. His working years not in the same vein for calloused hands, yet long enough for lean muscle. ‘The miserable are doomed always to be miserable, aren’t they.’ A statement. Not a question. ‘Do you believe in fate?’
╣✥╠ : leliowolfkiller liked for a starter.
❝ your LOOKS betray you. ❞ ❝ TELL ME what devours that uninspired mind, LESTAT. ❞
He says nothing in reply, and merely gives a dramatic sigh, his body sinking further into the sofa beneath him. How over the top he can be!
❛But I don’t believe in anything.❜
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There is nothing unusual about tonight as Howard Narcisse struts by, silver-topped cane in jauntily hand, the heels of his pointed-toed shoes clicking emphatically with his step not unlike that of a peacock. His dress is fairly tasteful for once at a glance – but only at a glance. The flash of gaudy violet brocade under his houndstooth jacket says otherwise, and there’s a certain jaunty spring in his step, like he has somewhere to be. He does, and no doubt it’s some dimly lit den of sin and pleasure, and no doubt he’ll overindulge in more ways than one. For one so jaded by hedonism he is also remarkably easily sated, and tonight he’s decided he’ll settle for snorting pills and cocaine and ending up sloppy and passionless with some boy he’ll barely recall by morning.
He’s far too distracted by vice, easy prey.
Howard barely spares a glance when some stranger approaches, but when he does he’s at first just a little taken by surprise by quite how comely he is. Narcisse, insouciant as ever, makes little of it, or his words, really.
He just huffs audibly through his nose in amusement, and both his yellow-stained smirk and the sharp little goatee below it would surely not look out of place on the Devil himself.
“And one would think right.”
There is no shame to the admission, either, but that said there is no shame to Howard Narcisse at all really. He is what he is, even if that means he’s a depraved homosexual with a taste for just about anything forbidden to him by convention, every intoxicating substance his dirty money can buy.
‘Your red-haired friend must be boring you,’ he says. It’s nonchalant the way he mentions it, as if watching another man so closely is quite the normal thing to do. The other young man is French, too, Lestat had heard that much. Everything about this Howard fellow just oozes corruptness. And he’s just Lestat’s type, just the type to sink his teeth into. Ha, ha. ‘And it’s all right is it? Going to boldly to your vices? London has changed over the years, then, hasn’t it? I had heard of respectability in this city,’ he says, a lilt in his voice. It’s not true, not one bit. London and the rest of the world are just as bad as each other, there is no such thing as respectability anymore. He continues to follow the other man, though, slowing down his gait to keep step with the little man. And he is very little. Lestat ought to be used to the short people by now, but it still amuses him. Their footsteps echo in the street, where voices echo around them, hidden away in the recesses of the labyrinthine city, hidden away for Howard (he supposes that the man thinks) to find and ravage, when instead, truly, it is not for him at all. This city breathes for Lestat’s kind, it yearn for him each time he leaves and celebrates his return by putting men like Howard in his path. How blessed he is this dear city cares for him so. ‘I know something more interesting than where you’re going, I’ll bet you.’ His tone is teasing, his tone is challenging, waiting for Howard Narcisse to take the bait. His name, of course, Lestat already knows, it’s not difficult to pry into the man’s mind, he’s an open book. He’s easy. “Artist”, wife, large house, dilapidated, cocaine, pills, alcohol, he’s thinking of it all, in some respect.
{{Alright I’m done dicking around with my blog so if y’all could tell me if there’s anything weird with it or if you like it that would be great?
the info on the right is cut in half, photo is too big, I think.
“I bet many wouldn’t You’re better then most. Most choose to fault others for their opinions right or wrong.”
‘When you have lived as long as I have, you learn not to care about the opinions of others if you have no wish to.’
“You think awfully highly of yourself don’t you? I’m sure plenty of others would disagree.”
‘And yet, many wouldn’t. I do not judge those on their –– obviously wrong –– opinions, my dear. I simply ignore them.’
‘I don’t know why anyone bothers with anything else these days, I’m all that’s really worth talking about.’
nxrcisse The thrill of the chase had quite lost its novelty by this time, a century in the blood would make any face the world with a half-hearted cynicism, and a half- hearted cynicism is what plagues the vampire now. His reflection in a show window stares back at him, still as beautiful as ever, hair curled beneath his jaw, a northern blonde, almost white. Perpetually twenty, but tall, very tall for his time, and tall still. Slay the evildoer, it had been his mantra for some years now, and he feels his care for it truly lacking. He remains, however, fixed upon this. And who more evil, more vulgar and worthy than the man he’s been watching for some days now? The vampire ignores his redheaded friend, for he is not nearly in the same class as this one, this one with the twitch in his fingers and the moustache curling above his lip in a perfect mirror of his smirk. He’s perfectly vile. With his impaired judgement thanks to the drugs, and libido, there will be nothing easier than taking this man and killing him. He’d tried to chase, but he’s just too easy. So Lestat comes away from the wall, smooths down the tails of his coat and moves to fall in step with Howard. ‘You know,’ he says, looking down at the man, his accent that of the Americans, the longboat-men of his Creole New Orleans, and a dash of French. ‘One would think you’re up to no good being in a place like this night after night. I hear East London is for debauchery.’