lamourt

[lamourt]

"Mm," Lestat agrees softly. "I can imagine it must." Not for the first time, he thinks of how the horrors he endured pale in comparison of those that Astarion did.

HE HAS KNOWN PAIN, has even known torture, depending on your definition of it. But for three hundred years... It is truly a marvel that the other man didn't go mad. He follows suit, settling himself onto the ground and looking up. STARS TWINKLE SOFTLY ABOVE– beautiful, yes, but perhaps not as entrancing to him as they seem to be to his companion. "I'm inclined to say I have," he muses, not contrarian, but pensive. "Though they are a lovely sight." Experiencing nature for the first time as a vampire had been utterly enthralling, but he feels a pang go through him as he glances to Astarion as he gazes up into the sky. He could never love the earth in that way. Not when it had taken Gabrielle away from him. Not when there is art and music and performance.

@lamourt liked for a starter and asked for astarion.

"Three hundred years of torture does tend to change your perspective on the smallest of things."

A SOFT HUM LEAVES HIS LIPS ; scarlet gaze flickering upwards as he watches the lights dance above. He'd settled himself on the ground , a little novel at first - but he was beginning to find he rather liked it. AS METICULOUS AS HE'D BEEN WHEN TAKING CARE OF THE ONLY PAIR OF CLOTHES HE OWENED ( a needle in hand , thread woven around it ) , for such finery was hard to come by these days , he found himself rather enjoying being free of it. A simple shirt , a pair of black trousers. He supposes it signifies his escape from Cazador ; a tiny flicker of hope. Something he had not been accustomed to before. STILL HE LOOKS TO THE SKIES , not necessarily ignoring Lestat , but instead finding the display of lights above far more fascinating. He has after all , come across other vampires before. Where once they had been a myth , they were now a daily part of his immortal life.

"Have you ever seen something so beautiful?" ( aside from himself , of course - but then that goes without saying doesn't it? )

[lamourt]

THAT LOUIS WOULD LET LESTAT INTO HIS LIFE AGAIN IS A PRIVILEGE beyond any he has ever known. The reconnection delicate only for a moment before falling into the warm, well-worn place Louis has always had in Lestat's heart. He hadn't expected Louis to take him up on his offer– a proffered hand that the other man had no real reason to trust. But he does. And it's a wonder, the way the body remembers. It's been almost a century since they laid down to coffin with one another, but they fit together as if it's been no time at all. He is struck, as they bed down, by all of hollowness he has endured. Years of arms curled around himself trying in vain to replicate the serenity he felt in Louis' embrace. The ache that has dulled with time but never gone away in the absence of his touch, the sound of his voice.

A soft sound permeates the din of his nightmare and falls, soothing, on Lestat's ears as wakefulness begins to spread itself slowly along his body. Autonomy returns to his limbs, the phantom feeling of cruel hands fades away, replaced by a soft touch, slender fingers in his hair. Tendrils of blonde hair flutter and he looses a shuddering breath as his surroundings finally come into focus. The cream-colored satin, fashioned after the coffin they'd shared so many nights at Rue Royale, the one Louis had destroyed after... But that night is long past. He nods at the question– he does know. "Home. We're home." Not an assertion he might have made in a steadier headspace, we are home, but he clings now to the simple things. Home, Louis, Home, the words synonymous. “ California, ” he clarifies after a moment, the words sticky from a dry throat. His beloved settles back down and Lestat pulls him in close, face pressing against russet skin, hiding there. His safety. “ I did, ” he says softly. He isn't sure how much more he can say, heart still hammering away in his chest. “ Of a few things. The past come back to haunt me, ” he murmurs. The beginning of a bitter laugh, sputtering out in sheer exhaustion. “ Lest I know a moment's peace. ”

FINDING  THEIR  RHYTHM  AGAIN  AFTER  NEARLY  80  YEARS  APART  proves  surprisingly  easy,  even  with  their  uniquely  complicated  history.  Such  is  the  nature  of  old  flames,  of  Lestat  and  Louis.  It  is  the  first  time  Louis  sleeps  in  a  coffin  since  Claudia’s  death,  since  his  own  and  personal  metaphorical  one  buried  in  cold  rock,  on  this  night  he  is  invited  to  stay  over.  But  there  is  no  fear  here  in  the  confined  walls  ...  none  of  his  own,  anyway.  Not  with  a  warm,  protective  body  pressed  to  his,  not  when  deep  and  dry  sleep  wash  over  him  like  an  ocean’s  wave,  lulling  the  tide  of  his  heavy,  heavy  eyelids  close  ... Most  of  the  morning  falls  away  to  their  slumber,  loose  limbs  curled  and  tangled  with  one  another  like  no  time  at  all  has  passed.  And  in  immortality,  in  eternal  life,  really  none  has.

Lestat  stirs  restlessly  in  his  arms,  fighting  off  nightmares,  memories  Louis  is  not  privy  to.  He  looks  vulnerable,  boyish  in  the  way  his  brows  furrow,  plush  mouth  pouts  behind  tousled  blonde  hair.  “ Les? ”   Louis  murmurs,  fingers  curling  around  an  alabaster  shoulder.  He  leaves  a  kiss  against  its  swell  as  he  gently  urges  him  awake.  Carefully,  Louis  turns  in  the  arms  draped  around  him,  enough  to  open  the  coffin  and  let  the  room's  faux  light  in.  He  hears  a  small,  fearful  voice  ---  a  stutter  of  his  name  on  a  French  tongue,  and  Louis  is  quick  to  return  to  him.  “ Hey … ”   he  sings  reassuringly,  fingers  dancing  across  the  crown  of  Lestat's  head,  carding  through  waves  of  wheat  to  fully  reveal  his  pale  face.  “ You  know  where  you  are,  cher? ”   Louis  asks,  sinking  back  down  into  the  cushions,  soft  green  eyes  never  leaving  the  weary  blue.  “ 'Think  you  had-a  bad  dream  … ”

[lamourt]

that's his baby

[lamourt]

my favorite kind of character is the kind who deep in their soul is constantly screaming LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME and outwardly expressing literally anything else

[lamourt]

people stop sexualizing that australian man right to his face challenge!!!!

[lamourt]

submissive in the way a livestock guardian dog is submissive to the sheep it kills wolves for

[lamourt]

lestat cannot pretend to be anything other than delighted to be painted. to be a muse, even if only for a few sessions. there is something intoxicating about being looked at– there has been all his life, from the very moment he first stepped in front of an audience as lelio. he craves to be known– and to be seen is close enough. but even then, he can't help himself from regaling valentine with stories of his past, of his relationship with art. he's curious, too, about the other man's journey. when had he learned that he possessed such a skill, how had he become p. r. dunham ? but the low sound of valentine’s voice brings him back into the room. ‘hmm.’ he huffs a quiet self-effacing laugh, covering the prickle of embarrassment with ever-present charm. ‘perhaps,’ he teases ( though he obeys the direction ), ‘a true master of the skill could overcome such obstacles as a moving subject.’

brush is held in an expert's hand, strokes made against canvas with nothing less then practiced precision. valentine has had plenty of muses over the centuries he's been alive, each one with their own special place in his heart. but the moment he had seen lestat, valentine knew the other vampire needed to be a part of his collection. with his paintings growing in popularity — albite under a pseudonym that he used for his own protection — he had no doubt that this portrait would stun the general public; those that resonated with p. r. dunham's other works. 'this would be much easier if you held still,' valetiine glanced at lestat over his easel, giving a small but knowing grin as he dipped his brush back into the paint he had mixed by hand. 'you may talk, just do not move your head, please,' @lamourt.

[lamourt]

yeah i'm a dream girl. your worst fucking nightmare actually

[lamourt]

reading the lest@t/gabrielle breakup and perfect day by lou reed is playing in my head

[lamourt]

#mood

RILEY KEOUGH as DAISY JONES in DAISY JONES & THE SIX

[lamourt]

“your characters need to be likeable” allow me to introduce you to the very worst guy who ever lived

[lamourt]

THRILLING UPDATE:

AMC Lesmand first weird psychosexual encounter: sexy dungeon blood exchange

Book Lesmand first weird psychosexual encounter: Armand very nearly seduces Lestat at a party but then Lestat gets mad and throws Armand through a set of double doors

AMC Loumand first meeting: sexy park confrontation

Book Loumand first meeting: literal fistfight in the street

EDIT: okay turns out Armand was breaking up the fight lol oops I got too excited

[lamourt]

@lamourt.

[lamourt]

i accidentally mailed my microwave to my old apartment and am luckily in contact with the current tenant but theyre not answering my texts anymore rjkebgiubrt

[lamourt]

Lestat has, frankly, gotten out of practice with his French. It will always be his mother tongue, but there are horrible moments where he takes too long of a pause, searches too long for a word. Each time, he immerses himself deeply in the language again, clinging to it desperately. So much time spent in the United States will not rob him of the place where he was born. Time will not rob him of it. But he's comfortable in English. Probably too comfortable. A brow lifts at the mention of his drink of choice. There's something a little chilling, to be known like that. Still, his cool facade remains. A wicked smile crooks the corner of his mouth. "That, I must say, sounds excellent."

While Theo is fluent in French, he prefers to do his business entirely in English. There are little nuances in both languages that he'd prefer to navigate in his mother tongue, and he doesn't know how French has changed - if it's changed at all - since Monsieur Lioncourt here last spoke it. Theo wouldn't want his modern tongue to mince his words inadvertently; English is simply easier. "How do you feel about a Sazerac?" he asks, the friendly smile lingering on his face as his hands come together in front of him, gold signet ring catching the light for just a moment as his hand lowers. Research, research, research... "If you're in the mood for something... richer, redder... I've heard we have a lovely black raspberry-dark chocolate blend tonight, some of the best we've had all week."

[lamourt]

sometimes "foreigner's god" by hozier makes me feel insane. all that i've been taught / and every word i've got / is foreign to me and he's irish but he's singing the song in english

[lamourt]

"that it is," lestat replies, unable to stop the way his gaze rakes over the other man's face. there's no denying that he's beautiful. fascinating, even from just a few moments of watching him. he nods, just the slightest incline of his chin. "it's a shame that not many do." for if they did, lestat is sure this young man would be mobbed by admirers. but is it really so bad if he has him all to himself?

he can feel the way blue eyes lock in on him, pleased, as ever, by the attention. there is no feeling quite like casting a spell on someone in this way.

a pale hand extends. "lestat de lioncourt," he says, "at your service. and yours?"

in view of others amuses will enough to properly quirk a smile. "it's a fine art." there's a blink and a nod of seriousness, an ironic sense of pride swelling in his chest. "i'm glad you appreciate it." a certain courage is required for being so brazenly unsettling and unyielding. just as such, it takes courage to approach the relentless staring in the corner as well.

a sip is taken of his whiskey and his focus is now entirely cinched to lestat. the rest of the room can melt away. after all, isn't this what he came here for? curiosity and connection...

"what's your name?" he will take what information he can get before he gives any.