♔ # 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 — 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓 , selective / indie roleplay blog for 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝚁𝙰𝚃 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙴 from 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄 / 𝐓𝐕𝐂 , book & show portrayal , (taking from the book more when it comes to S3), 𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝙽𝙾𝚅𝙰 ( 𝐬𝐡𝐞 / 𝐡𝐞𝐫 , 𝐄𝐒𝐓 , 𝟑𝟎 ,⚢ ) , newish to Tumblr rp , 18 years of rp exp in general. est july 2025. 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄. 21+
* ❤︎ single ship — reserved exclusively for 𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙸𝚂 ♡ @ofthinegrief
⟢ 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐋. I do my best to bring the character(s) I love to life, I tend to stick to canon as much as I possibly can, with personal opinions and headcanons added in. That being said, I will be sticking to the portrayal of Lestat that SAM REID brings to life in the AMC series, INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE. There will be heavy references to the second and third book in the TVC series, THE VAMPIRE LESTAT, and THE QUEEN OF THE DAMNED within my writings. I will also add in THE TALE OF THE BODY THIEF upon request but I tend to leave that separate till we see this happen in the show.
⟢ 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓! I portray every era of Lestat's life and tend to keep it all in a consecutive order. Every era will have a different type of Lestat that he projects to the public. For example, Paris Lestat is ENTIRELY different than NOLA Lestat and rockstar Lestat. When sending prompts / starters you can either specify which Lestat era you'd like to interact with, or you can leave that up to me and I will surprise you.
𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓: All graphics and edits I post on this account are made by me.
♡ ( Nova is currently reading - The Vampire Armand )
(last update: May 2026)
⟢ 𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎. Hi everyone! I'm Nova, this is my very first time in tumblr roleplay so go easy on me! I started roleplay on Myspace ages ago and moved to Instagram rp when the platform was born in 2010 and I have kinda been there ever since. I also am VERY active on discord for roleplay! I have been writing Lestat for a year and some odd months now and I have read 4 of the TVC books! I found myself having endless muse when it comes to Lestat so with the lack of IWTV rpers on Instagram, I decided to make the jump to tumblr rp with my beloved Louis in high hopes to get far more interactions and developments. I super look forward to writing with so many of you and potentially creating friendships along the way as well! ♡
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 : gore, brief depictions of NSFW, religious trauma, & catholic guilt.
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 3.6k
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 : lestat ( @ofthineguilt ), helen (original character made for one shot)
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀caption credits : colette on taratellr
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⠀ ⠀ ⠀
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ݁ . ̔ ⚖︎ ଼ :･ﾟ 𝖠𝖣𝖬𝖨𝖭 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖤.
this is a one shot that i started a long time ago but finally got the fire under my ass to start. louis, beloved and failed fledgling, doesn't like to drink from humans - so what if lestat is the meal instead? of course, lestat discourages this, yet... there is nothing like sharing the blood, is there?
this one shot focuses more on the intimacy of this sharing, but it also involves some of louis' guilt towards being a vampire, which i have always found an interesting and layered thing, so enjoy! i have placed it under keep reading because the formatting on part alone this is egregious enough.
also thank you to my beautiful and wonderful nova, who gave me lestat help with his lines/wrote a good portion of them for me - i am cannot write for him and she is literally THEEE lestat of all time.
COLOR GUIDE FOR THOUGHTS: LOUIS (GREEN), LESTAT (BLUE), VICTIM (PURPLE)
AMBIANCE SETTER: A Gente Acaba (Vento Em Rosa) by Alabaster DePlume
With each pull of ichor came a new thought, a memory surfacing to ease the pain.
His wife, their baby that would be born soon, the company he worked at to make ends meet for them. Their space in a boarding house that was so small that they owned nothing for themselves, save a few changes of clothes and his mother's cracking wash basin.
A photo on the wall of her, Helen was her name, in a wedding gown, hair stacked high with a long, flowing veil and a hat on top of it; the dress was from an older time, swallowing her in some places. It had been borrowed, once again, from his mother, who was now buried in a shallow, unmarked grave, for he had no money to do her death justice.
They were supposed to move in a few days, with these meager belongings, to land they would harvest for mere pennies, in hopes that it would be better -
The more he drank, the more human he felt. And the more human he felt… the more repulsive the blood became, for what human drank blood? What human would eat another human?
His prey lay there gasping within his strong arms, waiting for death to come and fly its soul to the next plane of existence, ready for the body to be left somewhere to at least be found, for then the wife would at least know what happened.
Helen wouldn’t have anyone to ask where he was. Helen didn’t know about the small jar under the floorboards for their trip. Helen didn’t know he had a dollar and twelve cents in his pocket from the last week of work he’d been able to find.
Louis stopped himself, less than halfway through the supply that the body could hold, his lower lip curled in distress, crimson tears gathering at the waterline. He was grieving for a gentleman he didn’t know, in thick, gurgling sobs from the blood that still remained in his throat.
Would that have been him, if he was human, and Lestat was the one that waited for him at the other end of town? Would his last thoughts be spent on him, hoping his body would be set somewhere to be found, just so Lestat would know the reason he didn’t come home?
Fangs tucked themselves back into his gums, pulling himself back to see the man cradled in his arms. It did not matter that he, this nameless being, was taller than him, only that the figure was small and crumpled, like a child.
Louis’ hand moved to touch the cheek of the mortal, still clinging to warmth, fighting for breath as autumn eyes met verdant, monstrous ones.
Even now, as he looked back at it, the wheezing and ragged breaths leaving the body, he could not spare it an ounce of true pity. He would pretend to, just as he would pretend it was not the weight of his own taken mortality that rested upon his soul.
His twelve-hundreth soul, and all he could spare was, I hate myself. I hate what he made me.
Without further adieu, he snapped the neck between his strong, inhuman fingers, blood tears still present but never falling. And as he did with each of his victims, he stored them away and forgot about them, or tried to, consumed by the self loathing enough to drive himself home in his green, decadent car.
With each block that passed, he picked flesh and blood from his gums, spitting it out upon the cobblestones and coming that much closer to normalcy, or however normal this home containing two immortals could be.
Was that what he chased after with such fervor, or was it only that he knew he should be guilty for what he’d done?
Just as it had been in the confessional box, begging for forgiveness for sins he would commit again, further shackled in permanent and unrelenting exile.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, grievously sinned, the prayer repeated in his head with the shutting of the car door, while he entered the townhouse, when he found himself staring at his coffin lined with green satin and an onyx casing.
Louis ducked his head, slipping through the opened window with grace, foot touching the balcony in their courtyard. There, he found his lover, his murderer, his maker. The man who had been the same one to take it away was the one to fill him back up again.
His fingers clasped onto the ring finger, finding the indentions there, not quite so faded and light as the bite mark at his clavicle, but still a bite of love.
Their eyes met, and it was quite obvious what question was going to leave his husband’s mouth, yet it was still asked anyway: “How was hunting?”
Awful. Don't make me do it again. Don't make me drink in more memories that ain't mine.
He pivoted his answer before his expression could give himself away, his pupils fully blown, the green in them nearly faded. “I'm still hungry.” There was no lie there, he was still hungry, starving, actually, albeit very slowly.
He took a few steps forward, eyes running appreciatively over the figure illuminated by the lights of New Orleans.
Somehow, the blond hair had become golden, the cobalt blue eyes shining amethyst from the glow of Edison bulbs around them. Lestat, in an unbuttoned vest, relaxed tie, and propped up feet, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But hadn't he always been?
He was the only man to make Louis realize that no rosary, no Bible, no amount of fear could save him from the love, the obsession, the addiction.
And there the immortal sat, owning the night, owning him, without second thought to anything but the cigarette between two pale fingers.
“There is enough blood in New Orleans to satiate you, mon cher.” While the voice was sweet, there was a chipped end to it, firm but still loving. The same patience that had been given the first year had not run to the third year.
But each and every one of them were truly no different than the tractor salesman.
Louis moved forward a few more steps, his hand moving to run along the wiry muscle of his lover's arm, purposefully placing pressure upon the third digit along with his touch, his scarred ring finger serving to entice the Frenchman. And with the glance to that finger, he knew he would be given what he longed for. “Don't want the taste of them.”
A large hand moved to grab at his waist, pulling him in, the action brazen for both of them - neither of them seemed to care. He leaned in close to the sculpted cheek, breath dancing across the jawline as he tilted his head. A soft but shallow sigh sent the hand at his waist exploring, the corners of his mouth rising.
“Les, I'm hungry.” There was a shift in tone before he was pulled even closer, an invitation that he accepted without question, sliding into the lap of his lover, tossing an arm over the shoulders.
Lestat's nose pressed to his own throat now, lips hovering. “And what are you hungry for?” A hand slipped down to toy with the locket upon his vest, in plain view but with no one to see it but themselves.
“You, sweeth'art, you.”
Porcelain skated across his cheek before two fingers tilted his chin upward, their lips catching in a warmth and sweet embrace, a soft sigh leaving his own mouth as his body was held bruisingly so. He could never have known how truly brittle he would be under Lestat’s powerful hands, with that ancient blood within him, and yet… he already knew.
He kissed his husband that much harder, tongue sliding across the full lower lip until they parted, his tongue slipping inside and swirling within the beautiful mouth. He could feel how heavy his lover was already breathing against his tongue, eyelashes fluttering from both of them as they melted into one another.
And the sounds of his beloved New Orleans melted away entirely, leaving only the sound of themselves within it, their heaving breaths and the fumbling of hands across clothes as his hands already pulled at the red tie and pointed, wing collar around his neck. Soft whispers of chéri, and please, sweeth’art, as his nimble fingers quickly made work of the buttons along the cream colored shirt.
Louis pulled back from the intoxicating touch, pupils blown wide, lips swollen as he met the lilac gaze, those eyes that tore over him greedily as he pulled the shirt further open. Both of their mouths were agape, rushed breaths still shooting right into their lungs as they stared at one another, lithe hands moving to unbutton his own shirt; they would share in this tonight, as they so often did, drinking in each other until morning came.
“Les,” he barely managed to softly whine before he was being kissed again, a soft hum leaving him as he gently nudged with his nose against the smooth cheek, immortality’s kiss leaving his beloved clean shaven for life.
Claws brushed over his chest, red marks rising to the surface, just shy of cutting into his flesh, the restraint of the elder vampire practiced far more than his own. His teeth sank into the lower lip, cutting right through and gaining the first gush of crimson delight, his body shivering as the haze began to fall over them.
Lestat's hand pulled his body closer by the belt loop, the free hand grasping at the nape of his neck, pulling him back. His darkened lips, smeared with life itself, were more beautiful than he’d seen them in days. “You…” another pause for a heavy breath, “you’ve been skipping meals.” A hiss as the fledgling dove forward and worked a dark mark of love onto the neck, “It will have to come to an end, mon cher, as much as I adore your hunger for me, I cannot provide for eternity.”
Louis scoffed in return, his mouth opening wider to allow his tongue to travel the length of the blood vessel, only pausing to speak. “That so? You gon’ push me away?” And as his tongue returned, a heavy sigh left his mouth, vibrating right against the pale throat.
Lestat's hand tightened over his neck as long fangs descended, double ridged at the edges, ready to tear into him at a moment’s notice.
“Thought so,” he murmured with a smile, peppering kisses as he trained closer and closer to the vein he favored, fangs descending in equal length, skin humming with warmth. They grazed over the skin and earned him a hiss, claws now sinking in, their hearts beating in that beautiful sync they had shared since their first meeting.
Drink all you can hold murmured with tenderness, maker to fledgling, lover to lover.
With a slight nudge and a head tilt, his jaw opened wide, then snapped over the threshold of porcelain, incisors sinking in and nestling so deeply that they might as well have become one with the rest of the body.
A roar of blood, ever sharpened in his immortal body, still pounded like a drum, a huge and overwhelming drum, the joining of themselves all too present within his ears and veins; it was as if the Dark Gift were being fed to him again, on the altar, wedded and given in exchange for eternity.
Love and desire intertwined, throbbing within both of them, demanding to be heard and fed, just as he was now, the need hitting in wave after wave, hips rolling against the body beneath him, sighs rising in the night sky.
This was the ecstasy he was meant to find in the blood, this was the euphoria he could not hold within himself without Lestat.
Fingertips pressed to the scar at his collarbones, coaxing a soft moan from him as his pull turned greedy, head bobbing slightly as he drank and drank and drank. How that ichor sang to him, how it cried out to him and whispered, you need only me.
And it was true, Louis knew it to be, that he could stay this way always, humming with life and never having to take another soul so long as his maker arranged dinner for two.
His softened, heat-combed hair rebelled against the styling, curls popping up and sticking out in different directions, still elegant and beautiful, but untamed in ways he’d always forced them to be. It was a look Lestat had always loved, how free they would become in their moments together, and even more so enjoyed that he did not always feel the strict need to tuck each strand back within place. The hand combing through them, the shudder beneath him, told him that his lover was savoring just that.
Louis’ cheeks hollowed themselves out as he drew into more, more more, his hunger never to be satiated, his maker just as eager to give as he was to take. And he would take that was given, saccharine wine leaving him as blood drunk as the hunt should have, memories they shared fogging in his mind.
The moonlight illuminating Louis’ features, fireflies and tall grass, the bald cypress above their canoe and Spanish moss reaching down to nearly hit his cheek. The shape of his lips as he smiled, the fern leaf secured around his finger as he grinned and reached up to let one of the lightning bugs perch on his finger, the ring finger no less.
Louis laying there in the darkness, his chest rising and falling so steadily, his breathing gentle, and somehow in sync. BUH-BUMP, BUH-BUMP, BUH-BUMP.
Their hands intertwined as they rested on the couch, the warmth of his tawny skin against the moonlight being, his nails short and human, then clawed, white, and filed down from shame.
Brown eyes, then green, how enchanting they both were in any light; golden flecks in the Edison bulbs, now emerald and new.
The anniversaries spent at the tailor shop, on that exact night of his making, sweat covering their bodies as they became one, over and over, desperately clawing at the other in need and reverence.
The firelight coming off of the locket within the church, a hard pull on the rosary he wore around his neck, bringing him closer, then a kiss in acceptance of his transformation and their companionship.
Louis hissed as he was pried off, Lestat still flush and warm no matter how much he had drank from him. Irises were impossible to distinguish from the pupils that had overtaken them, the buttons upon his shirt popping as his shirt was savagely ripped further open, now wasted to their hunger. And to think, he’d been careful in his own feedin’, all to keep the shirt intact.
“Mmmh, you got more to give,” he insisted, his eyelids heavy as his tongue ran along the length of his upper lip, fangs still shining in the light, decorated in the blood that filled his entire being. There was no line of self, only him, always him, living inside his veins and serving as the reason his heart pumped within his chest.
“Ahh ahh, it’s my turn to take you in.” Lestat caressed his face, thumb moving to swipe against the blood on his own lower lip before pressing the thumb against his tongue and swiping the offering against his tongue. The generosity of it sent his head spinning, swallowing hard as he fell back into worship, only he could. “To taste you, become bewitched by you and your sweet ichor that I too am too addicted to.” A gentle brush of the curls that had been broken from their pomade and careful styling, “Give yourself to me, my love.”
Louis nodded, in spite of his wish to keep drinking, his own hands moving to hold his inamortano’s face, fingers sweetly brushing against those distinct and ethereal features. The naturally sharp cheekbones and the jawline carved by “the English language” supposedly, the brows that were blond-brown and expressive, the lips that were fuller from the kisses and biting and love.
“Shall I reopen old wounds?” Claws grazed over the multiple, faded half-moons lovingly.
He sighed heavily, as if it were an answer in itself.
A feline smile broke out onto those lips, and the hand at the back of his head slipped down to his neck, thumb pressing against his pulse and beckoning him to offer himself up.
Louis leaned his head back, verdant eyes closing as fangs sank into his skin, stamped perfectly as they had been that night, in their tailor shop, in that beloved space where they’d first sworn themselves to each other.
Another moan rose from him as he felt the first draw, then another accompanied by a large gulp, his own fingers enclosing over his lover’s throat to feel each portion that slid downward. He shivered as the next swallow was made larger for his own benefit, so it could be felt by both of them, however they wished.
The fog of love, one he still could not grow accustomed to after these years together, thickened and the world itself was shuttered out, their soft groans and joined breaths the only sounds to touch the breeze surrounding them. Their heartbeats were a singular beat, in mortality, immortality, even as he was being fed upon and the memories he held were now on display.
Their first touch of hands, accidental, then quite purposeful over a pot of gumbo.
Louis waking up in the morning after their promises in the tailor shop, curled in his lover’s arms that kept him snared close.
Using pomade for his curls in the townhouse, how he could see those beautiful eyes watching him in the mirror as he smiled back.
His razor cutting into his skin on accident as he shaved, and how it had become a place for Lestat to drink from as they lay on the bed, skin slapping against skin with soft whispers mingling in the air.
The first night in his own coffin, Lestat crawling in when he knew that the fledgling couldn’t sleep like this and on his own no less, pressing them heart to heart until the anxious patter of the heart had slowed.
How divine Lestat looked in the moonlight, graceful and glorious, never missing a step as they raced down the riverline together, laughing because there was no one to hear them at such an hour. And the freedom they felt as they found a tree with raised roots that provided shelter from the sun, their night of collections for their beloved corner and eventual lovemaking putting them at risk to burn.
Their nights in the courtyard, swaying to that song the neighbor boy had been working in for the better part of the year. And how golden he always was, this man who had been seemingly pulled from the bayou, gills to lungs, for him and him alone.
The thought of what it would be to put a ring on the lithe and nimble finger, emerald and silver, something that resembles his own eyes…
Love you, he thought drowsily, cradling the blond locks and twirling a curl around one of his tawny fingers, the nails still long from the failed hunt rather than his appearances to the public. He felt the jolt of the body beneath him, the rough and crushing pull to make them one if it could be managed; he smiled in return, nodding his approval at the idea, despite its impossibility.
As the blood pumped between the pink and sweet lips that kissed at his neck with every drink, he could not help the flush that crept up his cheeks at how loudly his thoughts and pulse must have been.
Over and over again, the name engraved in each heartbeat, inseparable as it had perhaps always been, since their meeting in the Fairplay Saloon, to now, where they were as wedded as anyone else might have been.
A smirk against his skin and the rush of heat that came with it, as if he were being mocked; there was the strong urge to rip his maker from his neck, to deny the blood that kept them more connected in these moments than ever.
Lestat groaned beneath him and every thought in his mind cleared away, the sound ringing. Another gulp, another swirl of the talented tongue against his reopened marks, sending his nerves frying, poppin’ like grease on a skillet full of shrimp —
And then it was over, the blond beauty detaching himself and baring his blood soaked fangs. Louis’ chest heaved in satisfaction in filling his stomach and veins and throat and heart.
His lips trembled as he whispered, “Had your fill yet, sweeth’art?”
“I could drink from you for ages.” The lilac irises merely rimmed the widened pupils, nearly overtaken and hard to decipher in the night, even for a fledgling vampire.
“Wudd-jah now?” he retorted back, his accent thick and slurred, drunk off the moment more than he could ever want to admit to himself. “Cuh-ould keep drankin' if ya want.”
A hand at his jaw and their eyes met, lips nearly touching again, shared breaths, bloodied mouths. A soft laugh from those perfect lips before, “And if my hunger lies elsewhere, my dear Louis?”
It was only moments before there was the fumbling of fabric beneath palms and claws, ripping and pulling each other back into pure and utter bliss, mouths interlocked as much as their bodies, finally kilning into one before all of New Orleans and its stars.
I had the privilege of collabing with my love for her BUZZY Loustat one shot. I wrote the Lestat quotation parts along with his memories / thoughts to perfectly place him into Artemis' narrative. My Lestat was made for the sole purpose of loving her Louis, gills to lungs for hers and hers alone.
BRIEF CONSIDERATION MAKES AN APPEARANCE. A scrunch of the brows, the minute purse of the lips. Though. slight exaggeration may or may not have been in play to properly convey how he thought of the deflection. That is what it was, wasn’t it? A deflection. He’s been watching long enough to recognize when Lestat did not wish to speak on his own feelings. As a matter of fact, attempting to do so was as though he’d begun playing Jenga on his lonesome after all the safe pieces had already been taken away.
One wrong move and his voice goes strained, his volume peaking, his gesticulations as erratic as his gaze when he can't seem to figure out who would make settling on him less distressing - like everyone was pointing fingers or hurling baseless accusations just by looking his way. As though suddenly, the entire room had turned against him.
Sabine didn’t like seeing him like that.
Sometimes, he pressed anyway.
❝ Y’know what I figured? Up there, heat of the moment, the crown siphoning the energy you give and sustainin’ you with theirs in turn? ❞ Near unnaturally hazel hues, be-speckled by flecks of green like the moss that covered the bog just off the bank in the Lower Ninth, divert to provide Lestat sanctuary from the oppressive watchfulness he’s been warned they possess (More like admonished at particular lapse in levels of familiarity.).
❝ You feel more… alive. ❞ Glass nails outstretch towards the offering, leaning toward him to provide another subtle once over before drawing back to where he languished. The drag itself is a contemplative one. The faintest sizzle of dulling oranges and white-hot yellows appearing almost neon in the low light of the bus that never seemed to stop﹔ Like a horseless carriage hurdling through the night endlessly, at rest when dawn begins to break and the thrall driving it forward is banished to the shadows... only to return at dusk.
He was always up at dusk.
His dictation is always smooth, gentle. A curiosity of someone who had once been nurtured, listened to, answered with love and patience - that child-like wonder still facilitated. ❝ It’s like tryin’ to work an atrophied muscle, ain’t it? Can you remember the last time you felt alive, Lestat? ❞
HIS QUESTION WENT UNANSWERED, still offering up the burning bud. An unnecessary sniffle before he rolled his head to look away from his bassist, staring straight up at the filthy ceiling again. Lips pursed in thought, or perhaps like a pouting child who was being scolded for the hundredth time that day. Though the creature's words were nothing close to a scold, Lestat felt as if he had heard these words before from someone.
Christine? Salamander? Or that random fan he fucked in his dressing room two nights ago ... or was it 4? Or... maybe it was a month ago? He forgot, they didn't really matter. He was the scalpel and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted without a care in the world. (But he wanted someone to care. Someone in particular. )
The blond-haired rogue from the Parisian boulevard nights strikes again!
Even though he had heard words like this before they were different because they came from Sabine, his home away from home. So like... hotel?
Fuck, every time he spoke and looked into his earthy eyes it was like Lestat had been transported back to the place that sang sweet, beautiful jazz to him, that ran deep in his blood and ignited his soul. His feet were standing on the beloved cobblestones of Storyville, wearing his top hat and rich vintage clothing. Heart thrumming with newfound vampiric knowledge and a heart that yearned for adventure, freedom and love.
He was a different thing back then, that gentleman death in silk and lace, the canker in the heart of the rose whose heart was ripped from the beautiful bayou, willfully transformed from gills to lungs ... for him.
❝ You feel more… alive. ❞
Lestat's right hand rose to his chest, shimmering claws touched the silver chain he wore around his neck. A vintage piece he obtained as a gift in the years following 1910. There used to be a silver locket dangling from that chain, but Lestat chose not to wear it, for he felt that the person he matched with did not deserve to see him wearing it. Instead, the locket and its beloved contents resided back at home, in Montreal, inside his jewelry safe locked underneath his floorboards. Old habits die hard ... right Magnus?
Finally, the cigarette had been taken and the rockstar turned his head back over TC's lap (who twitched a little but never woke) to face Sabine; empty hand now resting atop his stomach.
A definite “Hm,” was all he had to say in response to that. Perhaps his question was answered, did Sabine feel alive?
Alive ... alive ... alive ...
Dusk. Yes, he and Lestat had that in common, early risers, the two of them. If they could share a cup of coffee and talk the twilight away, Lestat always felt that they would. Southern blood to a southern soul.
❝ ... Can you remember the last time you felt alive, Lestat? ❞
A flash of a memory danced behind the blink of his lilac eyes. A breath caught in his throat and came out of his nose that flared from the pain of the sweet, long lost memory:
He was on his knees beside a classy onyx coffin, hair tied back at the base of his neck, white tank top and comfy pajama pants. An arm wrapped around his companion who sat inside said coffin, wearing red pajamas with his hands resting on his stomach. Their words synced up, “Make sure they have locks that trigger from the inside”. Hands touch. Smiles shared. Lips lock.
Lestat blinks away the memory and fast forming blood tears. Licking his lips he turns away from Sabine and massages his forehead with his fingertips.
“A long time ago,” he muttered quickly, as if dismissive or experiencing a headache which he could never experience. What a great actor.
Though in that memory, Lestat knew there was a great storm approaching him, but that did not stop him from reveling in the love that his companion finally shared. Something he had been begging for, for decades.
But Lestat was also a liar, at times, when it mattered, when he found it beneficial, or whenever he wanted to deflect. Lestat still housed that Lelio spirit inside his heart. No matter what happened to him in his life, he would always be the performer, the singer, the musician who performed to find happiness in making others happy.
When they all sung his songs back at him, when they all tossed up their hands and sung from their hearts like a soundboard in a recording studio. THAT is when he last felt a slimmer of life.
But Louis ... Louis was the one that made him feel anything akin to TRULY being alive.
“You... mmmh,” he cleared his throat as he finished blinking the tears away, now looking at Sabine with a pretty good poker face, “What about you, hmm?" An eyebrow raised, “When's the last time you ever felt aliveee, Sab?”
Question after question, slap after slap, like daddy dearest did for the whole of his mortal life.
a kiss to cut the lion's mane. independent, private, &. low activity gabrielle de lioncourt of anne rice's the vampire chronicles. self—canon based with book inspiration. held dearly by saph, 25, she/they/he.
❝ Y'seem tired. Whether that be a fatigue of the mind or of the body, it shows. ❞ - @asperamortalis
for @asperamortalis
HE WAS STARING WITH a blank expression on his face, slightly parted lips, and a burning cigarette in between his two fingers. Bright lilac eyes seared holes into the tour bus's tanned, fabric lined ceiling that harbored the stains of who is that and what is that and why the fuck is that there?
Head resting on a snoozing Cookie's lap after she overexerted herself with hyperactivity and intense alcohol consumption. He loved TC, TC was his favorite (don't tell his other kids mama isn't supposed to play favoritism). In fact, the whole bus was fast asleep right now, besides the driver and his dearest bassist, Sabine.
Oh how he loved Sabine too, his whole aura gave Lestat a sense of nostalgia. New Orleans blood, accented and delightful, vintage and talented. He could play the fuck out of his bass too, never much of a complaint when it came to Sabine. Just the occasional.
❝ Y'seem tired. Whether that be a fatigue of the mind or of the body, it shows. ❞
Slowly, without tearing his wide eyes away from the 'oh so interesting ceiling', Lestat pressed the end of his cigarette bud to his pursed lips, taking in a long drag. He exhales soon after and leisurely passes the burning stick to Sabine, who sat at the table across the bus lane.
“Forty concerts in forty-three nights fucks one up in both mind and body, more than they are already fucked up, humph,” he scoffed. Though he was an egotistical vampire who drained the crowd's praise effortlessly night after night, he was in fact... tired.
I've realized I have not yapped about my S3 thoughts here. I will say a few things, but I will not go into too much detail because I do not have much good things to say.
I have a full season 3 rewrite in the works that I use when it comes to my main focus of writing anything to do with plots pertaining S3 of T.VL. Going forward, my main source of reference WILL be the book version of this series unless it is written well / cleaned up in the next season to come.
I am heartbroken by this season. This is my favorite book in the chronicles (as it is for many who have read these books) and I feel that Lestat's character, backstory, and connections wasn't conveyed well, "even for television", as they love to put it. I have the understanding of how they were trying to write things, however, I disagree with it. Passionately.
I think the only episodes that I was like "okay, I guess that's fine", were episodes, 3, 5, and 6. Like for a moment it felt like I.WTV again, it FELT like I was reading a bit of the book and getting that feeling I felt when I read T.VL. But again, it just wasn't done well and honestly nothing will make me have a sway in opinion unless they clean up their act in the next season.
That being said, I did like most of the songs written for Lestat. Others I just cannot listen to because they're bad. I understand WHY they are bad but like... dang.
So to wrap this up without pissing myself off for the many hundredth time: Again, I will be posting my season 3 rewrite soon that is in collab with Artemis and friends. PLEASE know, when interacting with me when it comes to S3 I will be pulling from the T.VL book source material when it comes to portraying Lestat's backstory, connections, and over all persona of his character. I will be keeping things within the modern / I.WTV timeline, but things will look different when it comes to my Lestat.
Thank you for reading and understanding.
• Is there anything you need? Food? A blanket? Someone to just sit with you?
BROWS FURROWED at the unfamiliar voice behind him. He turns his chin over his shoulder to find an unknown creature with luscious auburn hair that glowed like a pyre in the warm park lamp.
He sensed that she was like him, a monster of the moonlight. But why was she being so kind to a stranger? She must've been a fan of his, that could be the only logical answer. Perhaps his songs reached inside her and hung a string of lights around her undead heart, influencing her to keep going and seek out companionship in this savage garden they were both damned in.
“... Sitting is welcomed,” he muttered as he turned back around, scooting over on the bench to give her adequate room.
'I love your music! Which one is your favourite?' Unprompted
THERE WAS A NOTEBOOK turned over to him, for a moment he thought it was another poster or a copy Mr Du Lac's fucking book to sign. But it was neither, there was something written on the page and Lestat leaned down to read the delicate handwriting with a slight cock of his head. Curls dangling off his broad shoulders.
There was a ping in his heart and a sudden softness warming him from the inside.
“Ohh, thank you sweetheart,” he smiled charmingly, taking the notebook from her gently. “My favorite? Hmm. That is a hard one, you ask the good questions.”
He winks and begins to sign the book, jotting down a small note for her to read at a later time. “It believe it is a tie between Stained Glass Eyes and Brutal Love. I wrote those songs from my heart. They are different from the rest.”
The rockstar finishes his signature turns over the notebook back to her, completely ignoring any other fan that screamed and reached for him over the barricade.
“But the important question is, which is your favorite?” His voice was gentle and matched the smile on his pink plump lips.
The small sentence he wrote for her read, 'Thank you for your question and your kind nature. You shine brightly above the rest. You made my night xo -The Vampire Lestat'
