#* evilanew .

[ofstage]

‘   What kind of victim forgives the killer at the moment of death?   ‘

"someone in love with their killer." santiago stated matter of factly while carefully applying white grease paint across his cheek. he did not particularly enjoy the fact that he was forced to share the backstage with the great lestat de lioncourt. the frenchman had a gravitational pull that caused everyone's eyes and ears to turn to him. he had become the centre of the coven's every thought and action ... and santiago was now but a mere side character, meant only to feed him lines and fill up the stage.

and let us not forget the wailing! oh, how much wailing and moaning there had been since his arrival! if louis and claudia were troublemakers meant only to distract the maître from his duties, then lestat de lioncourt was a banshee who refused anyone to go about their day without knowing of all which ailed him. santiago had read claudia's journals ... but only now did he get to experience the full magnitude that was the vampire lestat.

perhaps the maître was more willing to surrender to the aesthetics of the that vampire's despair. but not him, oh no. "have you forgiven them for slitting your throat then?" the question sounded terribly casual, to the point of cruelty. bright green eyes glanced at lestat through the mirror. and, after a moment of contemplation, santiago turned in his seat to fully face their guest.

"and does dear louis love you enough, monsieur de lioncourt, to forgive for what is to come?" he scrunched his nose when the silence between them extended its' visit for a tad too long. "pity."

[ofmensogne]

my funny valentine for @evilanew !

"lestat, you look so small."

marcel points out as he eyes the blond from across the cold room. the vampire wears rusty chains around his bloodied wrists like jewellery. they bind him to the ceiling, like ominous puppet strings for some greater, crueler being to pull. he has been abandoned there, naked and afraid, surrounded by grey stone walls which drip with humidity. the floor, however, cannot be found, for around lestat de lioncourt's feet lay a thousand versions of him, all bearing his exact same face, all of them expressionless and awfully still. old dolls of flesh, toyed with and tossed aside, left behind for the black mold of the tower to swallow up and consume. it's a nightmarish sight --- and despite bearing a resemblance to true and horrible memories, it has been modified.

the scale of it all is far greater than lestat de lioncourt's past. the edges of this dream are blurred and dark, incomplete because the centre of emotion is lestat himself. and poor lestat ... he looks absolutely miserable as a prisoner of his own subconscious. marcel is an uninvited guest here. and he has no qualms in stepping over the piles of corpses. his impeccable chelsea boots walk over bare backs, chests, thighs, at one point, he even presses his shoe to one of the lifeless faces. and he does so with such nonchalance, one would think he was the monster haunting the vampire's sleep.

marcel stops when reaching the centre of the tower. he furrows his brow as he examines the blond man from head to toe. the agent looks like he might feel genuinely sorry for lestat. "this is not where your head should be in a day like this." he points out. but his tone lacks the urgency that the scene before him demands. "all alone, with no one to turn to but lesser versions of yourself. bah...n'est pas du tout romantique, vous ne trouvez pas?" asked the frenchman with a flutter of his lashes.

long fingers reach out to hold lestat's jaw. in the dream, the talamasca agent tips his head up to look at him. but rather than empathy, the vampire is met with a pout. "quelle honte." marcel sighs before quickly pulling his hand away, burying it deep into his coat's pocket. "happy valentine's i suppose." he shrugs.

[ofstage]

💌 Livraison pour la Saint-Valentin 💌

“ Do not overthink this. What you see here is a self-serving gift as much as it is a sign of my abundant generosity. ” A large case of La Prairie makeup awaits Santiago, bound by a red ribbon. “ Your current makeup, it is tacky. It makes me weep in revulsion. ”

bright green eyes read through the card with lukewarm interest. one dark eyebrow arches at the snarky tone which accompanies this mysterious gift but, nevertheless, santiago does not hesitate to pull at the ribbon which keeps this delivery bound together. his curiosity has always been very much catlike but killing him had become increasingly difficult throughout the years. he is pleasantly surprised by the contents --- but after a few seconds of quiet contemplation, a chuckle vibrates within the actor's chest. oh, the gall of this frenchman, the outrageous nerve of it all...!

santiago tilts his head as he allows for his sharp nailed fingers to brush over the case of makeup, the grin on his face that of the cat who ate the canary. "tacky, am i?" he purrs to himself, impressed by monsieur de lioncourt's efforts to spare his own sight from his apparently ghastly makeup work. santiago picks the case up, careful not to spill or drop any of its' contents. he walks swiftly across the room only to dump it into a bin, letting the lid shut. as he gazes down at the trashcan, he murmurs through disdainful lips; "bonne saint-valentin, lioncourt."

[ofmensogne]

Normality’s overrated, but there’s something abundantly off about this man, venomous tendrils emanating that draw Lestat’s attention, sordid curiosity that borders on being dangerously transfixed. It’s enough to notice that this strange one’s being observed by another ( si populaire ), supposed discretion manifesting within a puerile act of an averted gaze and a newspaper crossword listlessly toyed with. Lestat doesn’t owe the damnable stranger a thing— and yet, the space is encroached upon, the public setting stripped away in an instant as iridescent eyes lock with blue. “ Play. Along. ” The words are barely a whisper, fingertips reaching across to readjust the man’s collar with a misplaced ruse of familiarity, brazen confidence that brings lips to meet with the corner of the opposing mouth. The kiss gingerly trails across to the arc of an ear, speech slow and deliberate. “ Quelqu’un te regarde, chéri. ”

slim fingers brush his greying hair back and off his eyes. marcel plays the distracted mortal perfectly well: to the public, he is nothing but another guest at the hotel, reading through the brochures made available at the counter, making it clear that this is the frenchman's first trip to new orleans by the way his eyes linger over all the most touristic attractions. in actuality, he was there to monitor and report the activity of a vampire whose latest, very public decisions, had left the talamasca dumbfounded: lestat de lioncourt was supposed to be staying at this hotel. marcel was to find out in which room so that, once morning came, he could slip into his subconscious and gather information. the agent flipped a bright blue brochure which announced a steamboat jazz cruise around. only fifty bucks.

but his reading is suddenly interrupted, and when marcel's eyes meet luminous pale ones, he thinks he might have fucked up. his brow arches at the proximity of the vampire, wonders what he had done to reveal his nature and position, wondered how, after all these years, he could be so sloppy. worse of all, he wondered if whatever death the vampire lestat had planned for him would be dignified and quick or a slow humiliating rituals for the rest of the hotel guests to scream at.

the whisper and following kiss are what completely disarm him. so much so that marcel has to press one of his hands to the vampire's side, as if that alone will keep him balanced in a situation he couldn't have possibly predicted. the coldness of the skin which is pressed against his reminds marcel of a great love from his past which had, unfortunately, ended in tragedy. marcel can do little more than flutter his lashes when he is warned about being watched.

"vraiment? mais ---" he hadn't been found out. there was still hope for him and the mission. but the thought of someone else watching him was worrying. another agent from a different motherhouse? someone who held a grudge against him? marcel still was getting used to tipping...he swallowed dryly. lestat did not seem aware of who he was or what he did. marcel would have to run with it and feign obliviousness. "are you sure it is not you who's being watched?" he turned his head to meet the vampire's gaze, his lips curved into a small smile. "j'ai vu ton visage sur les affiches." he tried to turn his head further to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever could be tailing him. he sees the guy pondering over his crossword puzzle. he does not recognise him.

[ofreporting]

‘   You beginning to appreciate my lack of sympathy?   ‘

"listen, lestat," daniel has to take off his sunglasses and rub over his eyes. though he has immortality to look forward to, the tiredness of old age hits him like a ton of bricks every time he has to deal with lestat de lioncourt's antics. another camera lens had been destroyed because of molloy's line of questioning ; he hadn't sympathised with this documentary's subject enough during a certain portion of his life story. and sure, he was important enough to keep the producers at bay, but there was so much a rockstar's mean look could do.

this was the fifth time one of his higher ups tried to intervene during filming. money was getting bled out of them to fix or buy new equipment. the amount they had spent on NDA's alone was unlike anything daniel had ever witnessed. when he looked at the vampire sitting across from him again, the journalist did not appear particularly appreciative.

"this whole operation is gonna get shut down if you keep breaking our equipment." daniel pointed out, shrugging his shoulders a bit as if unsure of how else to approach the star of his latest project. "how hard is it to sit back and answer questions? i mean, you're a rockstar, man! you should be used to interviews!" his voice rises with outrage as he states, what he believes to be, common sense. asking lestat questions had been like pulling teeth. if he didn't appreciate daniel's tone or something felt too personal or invasive or if he just wasn't in a good mood that evening, crack went the lens, boom went the lightbulbs, thump went the fucking boom operator. it'd be funny if it didn't set them back two fucking weeks each time the great vampire lestat threw a fit!

"you don't like where things are going, though titties, pal. take five or suck it up like the rest of us." he arched his brow at the blond, widening his auburn eyes at him. "so, do you need a break?"

[ofdemonic]

‘   The effect I was hoping to have was her death. Mission accomplished.    ‘

"yeah, yeah, yeah, but did ya have to make it so quick?" mr. memphis whined, shaking his head at the bloodied body laying on the floor. twenty-nine years young. baptised too ... his little black book of souls had become increasingly light during these last few weeks. following the vampire lestat's north american tour in hopes of getting a few easy signatures had been a mistake. "that's another perfectly good soul gone to waste! you suck 'em dry so quick i can't even get a word in! you're killin' me over here, my guy!" cried out the demon while gesturing dramatically at the corpse which had been conveniently parked between two toyotas.

how was he supposed to get anyone to sign off their immortal souls to him if lestat de lioncourt kept cutting their lifelines with one quick precise bite? if he made his victims' deaths torturous and extravagant then maybe memphis could at least have a laugh, but this? this was just lazy work. very unlike the creature of the night he had heard so much about.

was lestat down in the dumps? had he lost his edge? no, surely not!

something in the demon's expression suddenly shifted. a light bulb had went on inside mr. memphis' head. "you happy with your manager? they slackin' off? i could get you to perform in sold-out stadiums. could get you a nike sponsorship! i could make sure every screen in the country has your face plastered on it." he wrapped an arm around lestat's shoulders, pulling him in tight. the guy smelled of tobacco, sulfur and, surprisingly, green apples. though there was no cigarette in either of his hands, before beginning his next sentence, the man exhaled smoke. "hell, why stop there? you wanna have your own talkshow, hm? say the words baby, and i can have kimmel dead by tomorrow. hey ---" memphis peeked over both of his shoulders before leaning in and whispering gravely.

"you wanna be president, lestat?"

his terrible red right hand smacked the vampire's chest with unearned familiarity. "i can get you in there! anything you want, on a fuckin' silver plater! i snap of my fingers and your wish is my command les! all you gotta do," his scarred hand was suddenly holding something open. "is give us an autograph." that damned little black book.