#⸻ 𓆩𓆪 ic ⸢ save at the typewriter ⸥

[hostiae]

there's an air of trepidation about him tonight. he's almost to the building and there's that quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn around. go back. it's not loud enough, however, not half as loud as the curiosity. if he didn't go, he'd wonder about it for ages to come. if it turns dangerous for him, it's not as if he can't make a quick exit. would armand set him up like that? he doesn't think so. not now and for what purpose? that was just it, wasn't it? even if he would, even if it were dangerous for lestat to slip into a niche little cafe after dusk, he'd have gone anyway because he wanted to know.

the little bell rings obnoxiously and lestat's dressed inconspicuous. fame brought new eyes and while he relished in it, he didn't want it here and now. he doesn't want it tonight. is it a little arrogant to think he might receive it? perhaps. blue eyes search the cafe for some sign, hidden behind heavy sunglasses until they fall on him.

like a doppelganger, a ghost — a phantom at a table — what kind of trick is it? some deranged prank — but if it were, he wouldn't be able to feel him. it wouldn't be so dead on, like walking into a memory where nicki wore modern clothes. nicki. nicki. he can't turn back, slip away where he came to try to gather his racing thoughts. how was he supposed to react to someone long since dead? he's too shocked for relief to well up in his chest, too confused to feel anything but rising anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

he'd like to throttle the messenger who gave him no warning, but that would take hunting him down and is no more than a distraction from who he's staring at right now. he makes his way to the table, an attempt to hold himself together, sunglasses taken off as soon as he reaches him, expression clouded in confusion. he swallows against a dry throat, feeling a deep vibration within himself. is he scared? angry? hit with a grief long ago buried? he wants to say his name, but it's dying on his tongue. it's too much disbelief. when the words do come out, they're spoken fast and broken.

❝ how — what is this? you can't — they told me you were gone. ❞ dead, the word is dead, lestat.

@aranostra for a plotted starter

[hostiae]

his clothes, his frailty, the still healing scar at his throat — they are a tangible reminder that night happened at all. he doesn't need the physical evidence, not when the night plays behind his eyes whenever they close. he'd known of their plotting, but throughout the evening, he believed louis might change his mind. it wasn't him. claudia held the deck in her hands and louis would have done anything for her. his cruel vampiric daughter and her manipulative spirit ( oh, he would be proud if he didn't feel utterly sick and tired ). their plotting stung and although lestat knew how he'd wronged each of them, it didn't alleviate the pain.

he doesn't know how to tell amalia everything. she isn't going to placate him or sugarcoat the truth and lestat isn't oblivious to the chain of events that led to him rotting away in a trunk, feasting on rats. he's grateful that she's there, happy to see her yet again, enough so that part of him wishes he'd sought her out earlier. before it all shattered into a thousand pieces. but louis had such a grip on him that he was willing to hold his family hostage to live in deluded bliss.

❝ i would suffer the ballet every night for you, mon amour, ❞ he teases tiredly, but it comes from a genuine place. if she'd watch opera with him, he'd watch ballet for her. it was no chore to spend time together. even when they tired of each other's company, returning felt like home.

he drinks hungrily, fingers digging in with his grip on her arm. he needs the ushering when she's had enough, because he's too insatiable and too weak to know when to stop. sharing blood any other time would have been enjoyable, erotic even, but not now. there's strength in vampire blood, more healing power than he would have gotten from any living human. he feels warmer following, stronger, despite the tiredness that stays behind his eyes. lestat pulls from her, a gasp of air taken before he lets the arm go and finds himself leaning heavily against her.

❝ thank you, ❞ he whispers, ❝ it helps. ❞ sleep still calls to him, however. the following night, he knows, will be better. they'll leave this place and he'll find something like himself.

❝ mm, you better. i don't want to only see you when one of us has been through hell, you know. ❞ she spends time with lestat and it's like a missing jigsaw piece slotting right into place; amalia is so comfortable with him, so at home. lestat may be more extroverted than she is, but beyond that they are much alike, and everything is easy. even when life around them is difficult, they are not. it breaks amalia's heart to see him like this, but she knows that whatever state he's in, he will fit right back into her life like he was never away from it. she knows, too, that he is more than welcome.

❝ darling, i'll run it for you myself. ❞ her hand rubs his shoulder, a reminder that she is here, that he's not alone anymore. amalia knows that terrifying ache. she knows what it is to feel powerless, to feel like nothing. after brazil, she spent longer than she'd care to admit to keeping lestat inside just so he could hold her close; without him, she might have drifted away, spiralling into the dark eddy that is borne out of trauma. she can be that person for him now. practical and warm. her own emotions are secondary. ❝ we'll get you a new shirt first thing tomorrow, too. this one needs to be burnt. ❞ perhaps he'll feel more like himself, in clean clothes, even if they're not to his taste.

she smiles into lestat's hair, though she hardly feels happy right now. how could she? she loves his company, absolutely (at least until he pisses her off), but amalia would never want it to be like this. she would never want him to go through whatever hell he's suffered. ❝ well, you're the only person i see opera with. and i will be dragging you to the ballet in return. ❞ things will be better, once they get to new york. there's still much to look forward to, once he has recovered.

a soft sound is made as his fangs pierce amalia's wrist. she lets her head rest back against the wall, her eyes closed as lestat drinks. amalia hopes it makes a difference. she may not have the strength of blood that he does, but there's some of his blood in her, and she hopes she can return that strength to him now, when he needs it. ❝ enough, ❞ she murmurs, when she has given lestat as much as she can afford to lose. after a moment, she gently nudges his head as she extricates her wrist. ❝ lestat, that's enough, love. ❞

[hostiae]

the book is a wound, open and bleeding for humans and immortals alike. for centuries, santino has lived in relative silence, scarce and difficult to track. he'd spent his years mulling over his role in the world — the role he'd had, the role he forsook and what he was to become. he attempted to maneuver within the modern era with grace, to reconcile lifetimes of zealotry and fervor, of atrocities committed with faith burning in the soul of him with a vampire who'd torn off the layers of belief in search of something else.

the book is a reminder. the voices of immortals he can hear outraged in response to the vampire louis de pointe du lac repeat laws he'd put to page so long ago. it's armand's name, however, that had not only surprised him the most, but left him with a knot in the pit of his stomach. guilt? naturally. he'd never sought him out, his distance, he thought, for the better.

every city he travels to, he guards his mind heavily. when he locates armand, however, he stops hiding, aware that his presence would likely be felt by any other immortal. opting to stand outside a public cafe, he gives the decision to the other vampire.

‘ i mean no harm, armand. ’ he reaches out with the mind gift. ‘ will you see me? ’

@aranostra liked for a santino starter!

[hostiae]

❝ mr. molloy! ❞ he calls out, a hooded jacket protecting him against the biting new york cold as he approaches the journalist once he's on the sidewalk. he's spent the night tracking him, attempting to take care to guard his thoughts, to hide his presence. he's not sure it's worked, but it won't matter much longer.

typically, he doesn't approach other vampires in new york ( at least those he didn't know ). despite having ancient blood, he's aware of his limits. child vampires weren't given the strength of their adult counterparts.

gripping a copy of his book in his hand, he jogs to catch up with him, purposely human in speed, coming around to stop in front of him. ❝ hey, would you mind signing my copy? i'm a big fan. ❞ he offers a boyish smile, his attempt at being as disarming as possible. the book itself is at least a little worn, he'd read it a few times already, had analyzed it on his podcast, pretending the names meant nothing to him. he'd been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to meet him.

@pluresque liked for a benji starter !!

[hostiae]

@ghostscribes asked: ❛ a guardian angel. a spirit of comfort. spirit of any celestial sphere. anything. hear my call. ❜ - to lestat from nicki

lestat sits quietly on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the letters on the playbill, as if the movement of his fingers might solidify the sounds in his mind. he knows what it says, but his head often aches with the struggle to put letters together to make any sense.

it's grown late, the show long over, and lestat isn't sure they've said a word to one another tonight. so when he hears nicki's voice, he's surprised, and looks up, tossing the playbill unceremoniously to the side table. he fears as he finds his place in paris, as he begins to feel that sense of belonging, that nicolas is drifting farther from him, deeper into the dark. he longs to drag him into the light!

❝ nicki? ❞ he asks, ❝ are we praying? in need of rescue? what are you calling to? ❞ he stands, walking to the nearby window to peer out at the darkened city.

[hostiae]

it's all louis. the decor, the endless shelves of books — lestat's eyes stop on the portrait above the fireplace — paul, sentry to their conversation. he turns from the fireplace, choosing to occupy the sofa ( closer to louis than the second armchair, but still separate enough ).

there's something comforting in knowing that this is louis's space, though it seems perpetually countered by the nervous energy racing through him. lestat leans back into the cradling embrace of the sofa, leg crossing for his heel to rest on his thigh. there's a part of him that wants to blame the buzz of energy on the show, but it's so far gone from his mind and had been from the second he saw the card. this energy — it was all them.

he fixes the hem of his pant leg over his boot, an easy distraction to the use of the word we. he'd like to say he's at peace, but he isn't. perhaps speaking of her had done louis some good. lestat only wishes he could think of her without guilt squeezing his ribcage, without a heaviness that had always felt unlike him. when he thinks of them leaving, it was once from the perspective of a dying vampire left out with the trash, but then there were the other thoughts, the thoughts he supposes he has no right to.

did claudia enjoy the ship? had her eyes been full of wonder when they reached europe? had she soaked up knowledge from the countries they visited like a sponge? did she have a favorite? he hopes it wasn't france.

❝ i agree, ❞ he says, not realizing the seconds that had passed between his last words, eyes lifting to meet louis's. ❝ i appreciate the symmetry, ❞ he says, a smile touching his expression.

❝ how's the city to you now, after all this time? does it still feel like home? ❞

he's choosing easy. casual. and while it feels like there might be a thousand words that he'd want to say to him, he's putting forth an effort to be normal about this.

Louis finds himself wanting to move forward in time; skip the difficult part, get to... What? What is his purpose? For as long as he's thought about this, he's still not sure. There's just more he hasn't worked through, and he can't work through it until he talks to Lestat again.

Perhaps it's he's used to Lestat setting the pace for the two of them. And when it wasn't Lestat...

"Yes, for now, I plan to stay," he says as he guides Lestat inside, through the entryway into the salon. The real estate agent had been halfway through calling it a family room before correcting herself. She knew he would be living alone. Instead of a family, the salon has rows of bookshelves along the walls and a couch flanked by two armchairs. There is a fireplace which is useless in the Louisiana climate, but Paul's portrait hangs above it.

The dress had been displayed too, on a part of the wall that's now empty, but he moved it before taking the card to Lestat. It hangs in his office now.

He gestures vaguely toward seating arrangements, if Lestat would like to choose one. Louis himself takes an armchair. He will keep his distance.

"I didn't keep many things from that time, but it's small, isn't it? I had forgotten it was among my things when we left." The same half-lie he'd told Claudia when she'd found it. He'd had to be quick to keep her from ripping it up.

Strange to casually mention her, even hidden in we. To refer to their leaving. To think of that moment in Europe when she found the card. But avoiding the past defeated the point. He didn't want to dwell, but he didn't want to try to escape it either.

"Anyway. I thought it was appropriate as an invitation."

[hostiae]

he senses riccardo almost immediately, alarms raised when he can't recognize him. while benji feared little, age had at least brought some caution around other vampires ( though impulse still won more often than it didn't ). dark eyes search the alley and quickly, he slams the dumpster shut on his recent kill and hops down from the other side and back to the concrete.

❝ don't give me trouble,❞ his thoughts reach out in warning — a premature threat was better than appearing weak. ❝ and i won't give you any. ❞ his fangs are still extracted, as if to remind he's no child, but a vampire, a killer the same as any other.

while benji doesn't consider himself particularly violent ( he feeds on evil men, rather than the innocent ), he knows the nature of vampires. he knows that he wasn't made with survival of himself in mind, but he's had good teachers.

@pluresque liked for benji a starter !!

[hostiae]

he's thought of riccardo since rome. of all the pain and suffering he's inflicted, the human they'd tore from his burning home, the survivor from the boys he'd ordered killed, whose turning he'd bore witness to. he's searched the minds of others, using his gifts to try to locate him.

it's that damned book that brought him from his quiet solitude with the ancient eric and into the world to find him. perhaps it had been too long.

he'd vanished without a trace, intentionally so, haunted by cracking beliefs and visions of ancient vampires that had given him no rest. all that he'd believed in, as a vampire, even before, as a devout man bent to the will of god, it shattered in him. and he'd woven such a web to ensnare others had broken their minds to his will, only to recognize it all to be falsehood.

had he spoken it all out loud, rather than hiding away until he could escape in silence, they all would have been in their rights to kill him. he'd been too good at what he did for them to follow him away from the path he'd set them on.

hands tucked into the pockets of the thick wool jacket around him, a figure in black, as he emerges behind riccardo.

❝ so much time between us, i scarce believed i would find you. ❞

@pluresque liked for a santino starter!

[hostiae]

@unheald asked: " spare me the rockstar bullshit - we've covered that. i wanna hear about the real you " -- for lestat from daniel

it's so simple — to be the vampire lestat. he slides into the role like a fitted costume, tailored perfectly for him and him alone. the rockstar grew from a reality of himself, just a larger than life version, built for cameras and consumption. and people loved to consume him, didn't they? just as he did them. but the way daniel looks at him, he can tell he sees it for what it is.

should he spill how louis spilled? such eloquence in his sadness, like a tragic poet.

lestat shifts, shoulders resting against the back of the chair, attempting to look unfazed despite feeling like the spotlight was heating up. he crosses one leg over the other, a breath taken.

❝ the real me? ❞ he smiles, but it lingers on self-deprecating. ❝ should i begin as louis did? ❞ his familiarity with the book came from an obsessive intake of the words on the page. there are few books he suffers to the end, but louis's? of course he had. ❝ it was 1794, but unlike him, i was neither eldest or favored. ❞

it's a deflection. an attempt to make the book small so that he can take comfort in his bullshit just a little longer. you've had louis, he wants to say, but are you ready for me? oh, he has to stop posturing, but finds it difficult.

❝ i had grown up on the other side of the révolution, my father, the marquis of a small village. our title, our château, all that was left of our name — ❞ he pauses, a more scrutinizing, curious gaze focused on daniel. ❝ are these the kinds of details you prefer? or do you have more specific questions you'd like to ask? ❞

[hostiae]

his smile is infuriating. he could have bared his fangs at him and it would have been less vexing. he would have felt far less tension ( it would've been easy ). oh, but armand made nothing easy, did he? coming here feels more and more like an error of his judgment. yes, he knew him, no, this isn't surprising ( but he'd hoped for a different outcome ).

❝ or, perhaps i thought you may be past your delusional sense of justice. i came to you because i have no other choice. ❞ he means the latter comment to have a bite to it. it isn't an edge he'd wanted to bring to him. it was far more complex than having limited choice ( although, it was true that he was limited in who he could seek help from ). originally, he put off any return to paris because of armand and the paris coven. what he wanted from his existence would never align with armand's, he told himself.

he'd never hated armand. never truly loathed him and he thought all he'd left him with, all he'd given him, he might do this favor for him. oh, but he'd been wrong.

❝ whatever your plans are, they'll fall apart, you know. i may not understand them, but i can promise you that. ❞

On that they would disagree, heavily and aggressively, but that was part of why Lestat had said it. Armand was convinced of that. They did so enjoy winding each other up so it seemed. Rather than offer any response to that, Armand was silent, just smiling sweetly at Lestat. His silence could be far more vexing to others than anything else.

"As for justice, you know well enough what my justice would be Lestat and yet you came to me. Part of you obviously wants that justice." Armand laid it out simply and clearly. It had been a bitter pill to swallow at first, that Lestat had returned but not for him. He had held out some dim hope buried deep within the recesses of his heart but that had been squashed utterly. In a way, he was grateful that it had been shattered and he was no longer under any illusions as to where they stood. It made it easier to do his job.

When Lestat asked him what he was going to get out of this, Armand shrugged a shoulder carelessly as though the matter was of little consequence. "You will see in time." It was all that he was going to give Lestat.

[hostiae]

@hechose asked: [ swipe ] sender notices a smudge of something on receiver's face and gently wipes it off ( is it blood?? make up?? who can say !! @ santiago hehe )

curious green eyes nearly glow as armand's hand reaches out, the smudge of blood on his face wiped away in a movement santiago can only describe as delicate — oh, tender could be the hand that directed the coven, it seemed. such duality in the monsters they were — a duality that had captivated his tarnished mortal soul. and santiago had embraced the dark gift and all of the evils with it, greedily — ravenously.

and then, it was the gentle hand of the maitre that had taken away the vile, stunning creature that had given him the gift. duality.

the night's performance still buzzes in his veins. night after night, even when the show turns into a reflex and the crowds mimic his words, he still feels that rise of adrenaline. it's that crowd that feeds him ( in more ways than one ).

a smile is drawn across his face, an exhaled chuckle. ❝ my scene partner was as messy in death as he was in life, it seems, ❞ he jokes, as if it were the victim's fault. ah, but when he looks at armand, he's hardly thinking about the show. ❝ tell me, maître, did you enjoy what you saw? ❞

[hostiae]

In which Louis gets Lestat an iPhone with only one number in it. His. After a few months or so of being in Dubai , redecorating, and being on his own. He texts, "Hey, wanna meet up?" At 2:30 pm Dubai time. "I really miss you." Followed and was received at 8:32 pm to the phone in New Orleans.

louis had brought change with him to new orleans. louis, like the storm, had swept through the city with a cleansing power and lestat emerged from it more alive than he'd been in over seventy years. since seeing him, he'd moved forward, finding a new flat in the french quarter.

the iphone he'd given him was kept charged at all times. so, when he hears it go off, he grabs it from the table. a reflexive smile appears on his face when he sees the texts. with phone in hand, he flops onto the couch, kicks his feet onto the coffee table to return them.

💬 to louis » are you inviting me to your home? 💬 to louis » it may influence what i pack

[hostiae]

( @esoterium asked: ❛ i had it under control. you didn’t need to do that. ❜ (Louis to Armand—is novel okay? I only know them. I…yep! Love me! It’s been 84 years since I wrote Lous! You can use show Armand tho! Catch me up??? If you want!) )

for a moment, armand is still — listening to the sounds of the dismissed vampire's footsteps as they create distance. he could have predicted what was said next, just as quickly as he can write it off. it doesn't matter. he turns back to face him with deliberate slowness. he locks onto louis, the amber hue of his dark eyes catching the candlelight.

❝ did you? ❞ it's rhetorical. armand excuses louis's protests as little more than a younger vampire's clinginess to pride and he does nothing to disguise the disbelief clear in his expression, eyebrows raising with question, and the compassionate ( sympathetic, not pitying ) exhale that follows. he perceives him as almost-human in sensitivity, in the emotions that drive him — he's fascinated. and with it, he yearns to shield, to protect ( to keep him ).

they have so much they could learn from one another.

louis isn't the same as those within his coven. he's so severed from the old ways, born detached — completely of the new world. armand craves a deeper understanding, something to light him from the inside out again. the giddiness of the macabre dramatics of the theater was beginning to wane. and if armand senses any discord between him and any of the others, he won't hesitate to intervene. did he know how easily he'd turn them to ash for him? all that he built leveled for one.

❝ that isn't what i saw. ❞

it should be proof of the devotion he was willing to offer. crossing closer, it's as if he barely touches the floor, eyes locked on louis's, standing a breath away. ❝ why do you refuse my help? ❞

[hostiae]

( @stormlit asked: i know you. (amalia & ezra )

ezra isn't sure he's ever been particularly good at small talk. he's an avid listener, with an encouraging countenance that somehow convinces people to talk to him. it's a good skill for soaking up gossip in a crowd, to securing trust in a benign way, with no interest of causing real harm or damage to those that confide in him. even as a vampire, he's never felt the desire to cause more harm than necessary. naturally, they kill to feed, but he derives no pleasure from violent death. unfortunately, he's trusted, and given his approval to those who can and do cause harm — he never would have, however, if he'd known. and while this isn't small talk here, it doesn't make it easy either.

just as he can feel his fledglings when they're near, he can feel their absence. george is dead. and unlike any of his other fledglings, he's grateful.

but amalia knows very little of that, doesn't she? he'd found her through the minds of others, through knowing the properties that her maker had owned. and standing there, at her doorstep, he takes a breath before offering a polite smile. ❝ forgive the intrusion, ❞ he says, though doesn't refute what she says. ❝ i know you too. ❞ their connection, he recognizes, could be an unwanted one. but, he can't avoid it.

❝ i sired your maker. ❞

[hostiae]

there's a gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach, something unlike anything he'd experienced prior. it's not quite like human hunger and unfortunately, far more difficult to satisfy when they couldn't just keep blood around 24/7 ( or maybe they could, maybe they should have, he checks the thought for later ).

❝ i'm so hungry, ❞ he groans through the sound of the piano — he'd been listening to sybelle play for what felt like hours, dark eyes focused on the high ceilings of their hotel apartment. with a heaved sigh, he finally sits up, swinging his legs back to the floor from the couch and looking to where sybelle played instead.

❝ i think i can eat more than i could before — do you think that's weird? do you think it'll change? the old ones don't seem to eat much — ❞ he gets off the couch, crossing to the bench to sit next to her, frankly thinking out loud more than anything else, eyes following her fingers on the keys before he looks at her face again.

❝ do you want to hunt with me?❞

@stormlit liked for a benji starter !!

[hostiae]

( @qapsiel asked: the devil is as real as you or i. (John Winchester) )

the devil, for all intents and purposes, felt like an idea. it was a reason, an excuse — a way to describe evil without cause, to give logic to whatever went bump in the dark. john had lost all believe in god, the devil, all the shit he'd been raised on as a midwestern kid in the 60s and 70s. but what he did believe in now were the monsters that managed to creep past common knowledge. the mess they left behind filled cold cases more than it filled anyone's mind with knowledge about the supernatural.

but the devil?

john wasn't a believer. you had to believe in god for the devil, didn't you? he could believe in hell and demons, but last he checked, there wasn't a boss man running the show. yet, this figure insists it. ❝ y'know, people come to me with some crazy stories. stories a five-year old wouldn't believe. still, they're probably true — but you, right now? i'm not sure what your deal is, but i'm not buying it. ❞