lamourt

[lamourt]

  blue  eyes  peer  up  at  his  lover,  glassy  with  adoration. ❛   quel  poète,   ❜  he  murmurs  softly,  lifting  a  finger  to  trail  across  his  lover's  cheek.  lestat  lets  out  a  slow  sigh  as  he  settles  into  louis’  embrace,  trying  to  drive  out  the  last  remnants  of  the  dream  with  the  knowledge  of  his  arms  wound  around  the  person  in  this  world  most  precious  to  him.  a  little  puff  of  laughter  makes  its  way  from  his  lips  at  louis’  gentle  teasing,  but  the  words  stick  in  his  mind:  this  is  peace.  he  knows  it’s  true.  still,  there  is  a  cruelty  to  that  peace  being  disturbed  when  it  has  been  so  hard-won.  even  so,  he  lets  himself  relax,  even  if  only  a  small  fraction  at  a  time.  his  hand  lays  splayed  against  the  silk  sleep  shirt,  a  deep  shade  of  green  this  night,  one  that  he  has  noticed  louis  favors.  lestat  is  all  too  familiar  with  feeling  unmoored–  there  are  few  sensations  that  have  the  opposite  effect.  this  is  one  of  them.

but  when  louis  asks  if  he  wants  to  talk  about  the  dream,  his  first  instinct  is  to  say  no.  if  he  only  rests,  he  won’t  have  to  think  about  it  anymore.  when  night  descends  and  a  new  day  begins  for  them,  it  will  be  over.  there  will  be  no  revisiting  the  tower,  the  horrid,  dank  smell.  no  echo  of  the  way  his  heart  tore  in  half  when  magnus  danced  into  the  fire,  of  the  twin  feelings–  of  hating  him  as  desperately  as  he,  almost  against  his  will,  loved  him.  there  will  be  no  need  to  dredge  up  the  memory  of  dinner  all  those  years  ago  in  new  orleans  when  lestat  had  poured  images  of  his  childhood  suffering  into  paul’s  mind,  let  his  anger  master  him,  made  a  fool  of  himself  before  the  du  lacs.  but  hadn’t  that  been  part  of  their  undoing?  both  of  them  hoarding  away  parts  of  themselves–  lestat,  his  past;  and  louis,  his  present?  haven’t  they  vowed  to  each  other  to  do  better  this  time  around?  and  worst  of  all  is  that  lestat does want  to  talk  about  it–  wants  to  let  everything  unspool  until  he  is  empty  of  it.  he  only  wishes  he  didn’t.  how  maudlin,  how  uselessly  tragic,  these  things  that  are  meant  to  be  left  behind.   ❛   i  dreamt  of  the  tower,   ❜  he  murmurs,  horrified  when  the  words  come  out  a  croak.  shame  is  a  rock  in  his  throat  but  he  swallows  it  down,  makes  himself  continue.   ❛   of  magnus,  but…   ❜   he  swallows  thickly.   ❛   also  of  my  brothers.  of  my  father.  of  things  that  never  happened,  but…   ❜   a  resigned  sigh.   ❛ even  so. ❜

( ♜ ) ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛  home,  that’s  right,  ❜ louis  echoes,  nodding  in  reassurance.  ❛  we  went  to  coffin  a  few  hours  ago,  when  the  sun  began  its  ascent  in  the  sky,  ❜  he  whispers,  fingers  carding  through  lestat’s  hair  over  and  over  again.  a  soft,  pleasant  hum  rumbles  in  his  chest  when  his  companion  burrows  closer  to  his  body.  louis’  hand  abandons  sleep-addled  tresses  for  lestat’s  waist,  tugging  him  closer,  impossibly  close.  his  heart  races  out  of  sync,  louis’  sluggish  beat  too  far  behind  from  lestat’s  now.  ❛  oh,  the  past,  ❜  louis  murmurs,  fond  and  sarcastic  in  equal  measure.  ❛  that’s  then,  baby.  this  is  now.  this  is  peace,  ❜  he  speaks,  mouth  moving  against  the  crown  of  lestat’s  head.

were  they  perfect?  far  from  it.  there  was  a  claudia-shaped  hole  in  both  of  their  hearts,  &* a  propensity  to  fall  back  on  old  habits  where  louis  bottles  his  feelings  and  lestat  lets  his  explode.  but  god,  they  were  better.  talking  about  the  things  that  matter  comes  easier  now —  easiest  in  the  close  confines  of  the  coffin,  in  the  shared  darkness  warmed  by  their  breath  and  body  heat.  ❛  do  you  want  to  talk  about  it?  ❜  louis  asks  quietly,  running  a  hand  along  the  knobs  of  lestat’s  spine,  nails  gently  scratching  his  back.  ❛  or  do  you  wanna  try  and  get  some  shut  eye,  hm?  ❜

[lamourt]

god lest@t is such a bitch to paul

like girl i know that religion is a tough subject for you but oh my god??? "its okay louis, madame, the Birds Speak For Him" with the little wiggly fingers

shut your ass UP

[lamourt]

Lestat X Doechii

lcstvt_ on TikTok

[lamourt]

There will always be a quiet sadness in him, to know what they had had together, how precious it was– and to be the reason it was lost. A lump forms in his throat when Louis speaks. Some of it was beautiful the first time. It's in those moments that Lestat finds his solace, even now. It had been an interesting thing, acknowledging the ways Louis hurt him outside of the storm of his own feelings. For so long, he had swung wildly between blaming only Louis and blaming only himself. In those early years as it happened, he'd felt blistering anger, utter heartbreak. And then when Louis had spared him and he'd gone into the ground again, he could see no wrongdoing but his own. But while the decades stretched on, Lestat had managed a quiet kind of clarity.

Louis had hurt him. It was true, even if Lestat had hurt him far worse, far more often. Twenty years ago, he might have stopped Louis, insisted that he had never hurt Lestat at all. But in this moment, he has learned to accept the gray.

Something splinters in his heart when he hears the way Louis' voice quavers. He can't help, now, the way his hand lifts to rest gently against the familiar cheek. "It feels dishonest," he begins, "to promise you I will never hurt you again. Lovers have the greatest capacity to hurt one another, I think. But I swear to you, Louis; I will never hurt you like I did then. And I will spend every day proving it, if you'll let me."

It's tempting to believe him. Just hurl himself into this again, knowing how bad it can get. What does it matter now anyway? The first time around, he'd had so many hopes and expectations. He'd thought he knew what love must be about, what relationships must be like. He'd thought the two of them could add a child and become a family. He'd that that family could become an eternal version of the family he'd always thought he'd have one day.

Not now. So why is he still scared? Why's he searching Lestat's eyes for some confirmation that it really could be beautiful and not just a new kind of ugly.

"Some of it was beautiful the first time," he says, softly. Then, "But I don't want to hurt you again. And--"

His voice breaks, and he frowns at himself. He knows what Claudia would say. That he's being weak. Stupid. More than a little pathetic. "And I don't want to get hurt."

[lamourt]

As ever, he is too blinded by his own hurt– doesn't see the way that he has shaken Louis' trust in himself, his memories. All Lestat can see is the conflict, the ways they don't see eye to eye. He is so immovable in how he sees things that it hardly even occurs to him that there is another way to be. Since he was a boy, his feelings have roared deafeningly in his ears, burned too brightly to be looked at head on. To try to contain them is so often a fool's errand.

The words pierce through as they're meant to and Lestat feels a hot spike of pain lance through him. "Yes," he says softly, something caught between heartbreak and simmering anger, "you've made that very clear."

Lestat doesn't understand. It kills him, how he doesn't understand. "I did choose you, Louis. And I choose you again, each day. There is nothing that could make me stop. All I want is for you to do the same."

Louis could relitigate all of it. Bring forth his evidence this time. Give his fucking testimony.

But he has already done that, of course, and the thought of it is exhausting. The thought of saying any of it to Lestat's face is exhausting. It takes so much energy to believe himself before Lestat, and usually he gives in. Lestat's version is probably more accurate than his own. His memories are like a decaying fortress that he keeps trying to rebuild to protect himself, only for it to fall again and again.

Pointless. The pointlessness makes him laugh--more an exhalation of breath, like being hit in the stomach. "You think it matters to me? If you need me? I don't need you to need me."

The words are cruel, he can hear the cruelty in his voice and he holds onto it briefly. Cruelty is the only defense that ever worked, even though it hurts him, too.

But his voice is quieter when he says, "I never wanted to be something you were stuck with. I didn't want to be a burden or a necessity. It only ever mattered to me when you chose me." Unsure, again, of those memories. Did Lestat ever choose him, really? Was it all just compulsion and lust and obsession? So he revises his words. "When I felt like you chose me."

[lamourt]

Orpheus and Eurydice, Titian & Orpheus and Eurydice, George Frederic Watts // Silver Springs, Fleetwood Mac

[lamourt]

"I can't stand you?" he cries. "And what name would you give to how you feel for me?" Something vulnerable twitches across his lips, eyes locked onto Louis' until he can't look anymore. Blonde locks fan out as he twists his neck, trying to curb his frustration, trying to bear this out with some kind of grace. Of course, he will fail. He always does. There is nothing graceful about the way he feels when they fight. "I showed you who I was when I met you." You saw me and you said you'd love me, he doesn't say.

His breaths come harder, the ugly feeling rearing that Louis is abandoning him no matter how close he may be. "I may be your elder, Louis, but I am still a man. I still need you. I need you in a way you have made very clear that you do not need me." And there it is, at last. Need. Perhaps a poor substitute for the word love, but Lestat so often feels them as one in the same. "So forgive me, if I am not the picture of serenity."

"Is that who I am? The mortal thirty-three year old you met way back when?" Louis scoffs, shaking his head. "All right. Fine. Whatever you say, Lestat. I'm already ideal. I'm perfect to you, except you can't stand me half the time. If I don't baby you, you shatter. If I'm in a bad mood, you go fuck somebody else. I'd hate to see how you'd act with somebody isn't your ideal companion."

He knows it's stupid to escalate the argument. It'd end faster if he'd just let it go, but he doesn't want to let it go yet. "Go on, tell me again how I just need to be patient with you. As if you're some kid instead of more than a century older than me. Go on. Tell me about all the good patience has done for me so far."

[lamourt]

watched a bunch of iw.tv edits the other night when i should have been sleeping and i miss him so

[lamourt]

@shilohgreen sent 🎁 for a spotify wrapped starter! ( armageddon it by def leppard )

'you drive the pretty boys out of their heads.'

[lamourt]

@pierprincess sent 🎁 for a spotify wrapped starter! ( thunderstruck by ac/dc )

'my mind raced, and i thought what could i do?'

[lamourt]

@servire sent 🎁 for a spotify wrapped starter! ( decatur, or, round of applause for your stepmother! by sufjan stevens )

'i've had my fill. and i know how bad it feels.'

[lamourt]

@dancedthrough sent : [ tie ] sender helps receiver with their tie, either by putting it on or adjusting it

lestat is utterly delighted when fiyero reaches to adjust his tie– can barely contain the pleased smirk that graces his features as deft hands straighten it out. 'such a gentleman,' he purrs, 'how did i get so lucky?' he reaches to tug the other man in by his lapels, just a little closer, making an excuse by smoothing them out. 'there. now you're ready.'

[lamourt]

rich coming from him, really. lestat gets lost in the fantasy, sometimes, that he is not who he is. for no matter how he has changed, he is still the man who hurt the people he loved– the people he was supposed to love– all those years ago. he will never be free of what he did to them. nor should he be. and if that notion flickers over his expression, then he can only hope genevieve doesn't notice. should she have any desire to take him to bed, she need never know those parts of him.

the sweet roaming of her eyes– almost innocent– is soothing as it goes over him. maybe he can't be good, not at his core. but he can be sweet. he can be beautiful. and in fact it would be a privilege to be that for her; to be, for a moment, someone who could even begin to deserve a woman so enchanting. but something in the air changes and he lets the fantasy slip gently past. he is more than happy simply to converse with her as they fall into step beside one another. still, her manner is so utterly lovely.

'the pleasure is all mine, i assure you.' he offers her a smile, genuine admiration in his eyes. 'you run a truly remarkable establishment. i won't be able to speak highly enough of it.'

the question isn't one many ask with such earnestness– where lestat has come from, and why. so often it is mere polite conversation before more... intimate matters are discussed. ( yet isn't that all by his own doing? )

still, he is touched.

'no, not for business at the moment. i, ah...' a painful twinge to his heart as he thinks of the azalea, the joy felt there and the anger– the boiling jealousy, the fierce pride, the chaotic grasp for attention, control, something. 'i tend not to involve myself in it any longer. i am the most silent of silent partners these days.' his expression brightens as he recovers himself. 'no, i've taken it upon myself to explore more of the country i have come to call home, her cities.'

considering genevieve has only had one lover, she didn't think she had enough experience to answer. with rose, however, she had made sure the other woman felt love and cared for in every way imaginable, showed her attention and gave her the respect she did, indeed, deserve. after a moment of gazing at one another, genevieve's features soften that much more, enticed by both his looks and the tenderness of his words. 'yes — i would have to agree,' as often as she tried to keep her thoughts from wandering, genevieve can't help but to wonder how many lovers lestat has had in his lifetime. surely an inappropriate thought, one she would keep to herself, but something she can't help but to think, all the time. such a handsome creature; it was hard to believe he hasn't gotten anyone or anything he's ever wanted. then again, genevieve understood that being beautiful wasn't entirely positive. sometimes, it came with being seen as a object, a trophy to be won and put on a shelf. there were so many things she wanted to know about him, but now didn't seem like the time to ask.

she waits for lestat to stand, ushering him forward with a manicured hand, only to follow him out the door and step into his stride. she's barely taller than him in her boots, heels adding five inches for her to leverage, if needed. it was nice to look him in the eyes, this way, though she couldn't keep her gaze on him for too long, unsure if she could hide the intrigue portrayed there. 'it is a pleasure to have you here, monsieur de lioncourt,' genevieve states genuinely, trying to keep her tone professional, though it may briefly drift into one of admiration. she leads him up the grand staircase toward a short hallway with several locked rooms. she walks slowly, perhaps wanting to elongate this time they had together. 'what brings you, if you do not mind me asking? to the city, to my lounge . . .' hands clasp in front of her form as she stops in front of one of the suites, turning to glance at lestat once more. 'pleasure, of course, but may it also be for business?'

[lamourt]

Send 🎁 to receive a starter based off a random song from my Spotify Wrapped

Remember to state who the meme is for/or from for multimuses.

Add a number (1-100) for the starter to be based off the corresponding song.

[lamourt]

Why is “pretty boy” considered an insult like call me a pretty boy Call me a pretty boy right now I want to be the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen

[lamourt]

[lamourt]

im sorry but i think lest@t would be obsessed with s@brina c@arpet-ner