#Claudia de pointe du lac de lioncourt

[cyclopstism]

somebody fucking sedate me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[aquarines]

the family on the side of a building ahead of the sdcc

[kultklassicc]

claudia de pointe du lac 🫶🏾🎀

[creativelycomplex]

Happy Nosferatu day to those who celebrate. Modern day unholy family would’ve caught the midnight show on opening day.

[glabzzitto]

They ❤️

[loumandss]

like father, like daughter.

[kayray-art]

find this post on…

twitter | instagram | threads | bluesky

[ken-doll-roy]

Real love makes your lungs black.

These vampires consume my every waking thought, I am SICK.

(I kinda hate this edit bc I couldn't make it look like how I wanted it to but I hope you enjoy)

[suzieloveships]

Friendship ended with "RIP Claudia, you would have love Gabrielle de Lioncourt". Now "RIP Claudia, you would have love Daniel Molloy" is my new best friend

[itwasanangryinch]

L'odeur de la mort

He remembered the smell of death.

Not the antiseptic, clinical smell of a modern death. A body sterilized and removed of fluids. Removed of its humanity and everything that had made a person alive.

Not even the less-modern, but honest smell of a natural death. The sweetened, heady fragrance of putrefaction taking over a body as it took over the air.

As it hung in the humidified climate.

Clinging to anything it touched.

Digging into soft fabrics the longer the body was kept for viewing.

No, Louis remembered the smell of death from his youth. Before they moved into the final de Pointe du Lac family home half an hour from the Quarter, when they buried his grandfather and his father took the mantel as head of the family.

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At first, the de Pointe du Lacs decked out in their best existing black finery as an urgent correspondence was sent to a favored tailor and its twin to their favored dressmaker. The children's current clothes all fit smaller versions of them; the whole family many seasons out of style. Grace would have been… six…? to Louis' nine. It hadn't even been a quarter century since they parted, but recent proceedings made it harder than usual to focus on the particulars.

New clothes in the latest style were delivered before the death notice hit the papers. Favored servants also received updated, but less stylish additions to their wardrobes. Regardless of what went on in their personal lives, when the house was in mourning, the whole household was in mourning.

Unfavored servants though. It was unfavored servants who created the Creole smell of death.

Despite the custom for open casket viewings in an ill-suited climate, it wasn't the smell of a less-than-fresh corpse that created the smell of death in New Orleans. Instead it was the smell of the fresh dye that in the city permeated the air for blocks and for miles from the not-quite-plantation house at the edge of town. It was gag inducing and its permanence ensured their servants would be clad only in black until they could afford to replace the clothes.

Officially, they would only have to wear black as long as the lady of the house dictated, but in practice? In practice, they were worn for years after, re-dyed with each death. Re-colored with each loss. The dye as much a literal reflection of mourning as it was metaphor rubbing from the fabric and into their skin. A literal marking of the family loss imprinting semi-indelible on everything it brushed upon.

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It was that smell more than anything that Louis found himself missing those first nights at sea. The crisp, salt air seemed an affront to the unnatural death that they had witnessed in New Orleans. That they had caused in New Orleans. That they had fled in New Orleans.

His mourning clothes weren't to be black. Dingy greys, muted browns, muddy greens, earthy purples. All colors he and Claudia cloaked themselves in to hide amongst the mortals on the warfront. But not black.

Lestat had died, but in his stead there was to be no full page, black-ringed notice in the evening paper. No open house allowing loved ones and spectators one last glimpse at the carefully prepared body of the illusive, flamboyant former investor of the French Quarter. No black wreath adorning their front door marking their house as having an untraditionally sombre Lent.

All their carefully packed and coordinated accoutrements had been abandoned almost as soon as they debarked. Traded in to play-act as wartorn locals. As much a lie as the photograph of Grace they used to pretend to be a family looking for their missing member. But they knew where their missing family member lie.

Lestat was dead. What did petty trinkets matter?

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A respected family like the de Pointe du Lacs had their mausoleum well established. Long since built in anticipation of generations not only yet interred, but yet birthed. An anticipation of generations of death reunited for family members yet to come.

The last interment Louis had witnessed had been that of his father. The singular death that catapulted him from second, but capable son to patriarch and provider. His mother's man in society, his sister's caretaker until Letty proved himself worthy — if he ever proved himself worthy. Paul's alleged savior, bringing him home from hospital and back to the parish church where his delusions were indulged and not beaten. Where his standing as a stalwart local noble carried an air of deference as opposed to being seen as just another crazy negro.

Florence's mourning period for her husband was longer than it had been for the previous patriarch. She had liked her father-in-law well enough, a curt respect and show of deference to where their young family had tithed from. But where Grandfather du Lac had found himself with a lack of a wife to prolong his life much beyond what it took for the Second Line to play their last, Florence had a place in society to maintain. She loved her late husband, of course, but her mourning was as much performance and societal duty as it was grief. She counted down the days till she could reintroduce a small splash of color to her wardrobe.

And yet, when the time came to enter half mourning, she found herself reluctant to add any colors to her wardrobe. And Louis wondered if it were as much about the loss of a husband as it was finding him to be a lack of a worthy replacement.

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Claudia found Louis' rituals to be tedious. It had been hard enough to convince him to kill Lestat. To keep Louis engaged with the plan once he had given himself over to illusion and allowed himself to love Lestat without reservation. Able to tell himself that this was the illusion and not the distance he had kept between them for so many years beforehand.

She almost killed Louis herself when he suggested a final update to her much ignored doll collection. What did she care of the human custom for black dressed widow dolls? What use would she have had for a mourning trinket meant to signal the death of a loved one? Lestat wasn't her loved one so much as her captor.

"You're supposed to be a child," Louis chided as they bedded down in a makeshift shelter.

"A teenager, not a fuckin' baby," she reminded him, her sleep already soured before she made the nightly commitment to coffin.

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Before they left Rue Royal for the final time, Louis went around the house and covered the remaining mirrors. "Closin' up the house," he deflected.

"Makin' sure he won't get trapped," came the surly reply. "He was a goddamned bastard. At least if he's trapped, we know where he is."

But Lestat doesn't deserve that, Louis thought to himself. Numb in his blood soaked clothes as he draped cloth over each mirror in the residence.

The horror that had been Lestat. The husband that had been Lestat.

What was death without the trappings of mourning? Without the rituals of loss? Without the overt signals to the neighborhood that a beloved family member had shuffled off this mortal plan and to the next?

What was life without Lestat?

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Final notes: All of the cultural mourning information is based on the historical information and research of the Hermann-Grima + Gallier Historic Houses in New Orleans. Their Fall tour of the Gallier House is based on Creole practices circa 1860-1865 complete with historic ads for some of the items mentioned like the widow dolls.

While this information would be 50-80 years out of date for the show's timeline, Florence was definitely old school in the way she comported herself and Louis "clings to his Creole heritage" so it wouldn't be out of step for the characters to have an old fashioned way of doing things, especially as it would gain them respect in an increasingly hostile society.

Gallier House, of course, being notable to the narrative as the exterior model and address of 1132 Rue Royal and the basis for the interior layout as well.

[aliasmard]

The carnival of the animals "The swan" - Camille Saint-Saëns & claudeleine

I made it just second ago actually and I love it

[aquarines]

claudia haunting both lestat and louis in season 3, but bailey's claudia is haunting lestat and delainey's claudia is haunting louis, is how we get both bailey and delainey in season 3

[mostofthingsmostofthetime]

Thanks to the power of tiktok edits, I've fallen down an Armand/Daniel rabbit hole & require fanfic recommendations.

I've already read -

. Different for vampires by Ariaste

. The dog days are over serise by Brontelover

. A haunting just for company by Valkyrisms

. A brick row house and two old men serise by hummingbeeoOo

. Caldera: Mise-en- Abime (Vol. 1) serise by irisbleufic

. Darkest little paradise by brightloveee

. Whatever remains must be the truth by maleikha

. Taste like a bad idea by foxrina66

All of which I highly recommend, but I need more!!!!!

I'm cool with cannon complient or 'what the hell is cannon' aus, but I would prefer Daniel to still be old & for it to be more bassed off the show then the books (though i don't mind if some details from the books are throw in).

The vampire gooba gang can be a little flirty with each other, but I don't want them to actually be a thorple (is that even a word?) So, like "experimentaion" is fine, but everyone needs to be clear where their hearts stand throughout (ie. Daniel with Armand & Lestat with Louie).

I would love austistic armand (regardless of if its relevant to the plot).

Happy Cludia, at least for a human au, would also greatly be appreciated (it's the least she deserves).

If Marius does show up. I want him to be hated. Like even if there might not be anything the characters can do to him physically (due to the difference in age & the great vampire laws bla bla). Naratively however? I want the author to never miss a chance to remind us what a loser that creep is. Even if Armand can't admit that what happened to him was wrong.

And Daniel & Louie's friendship. Coz, when they're written well, they're legitimately so cute & funny that it makes me almost wanna cry. Like they're just too old men stuck watching their peacock husbands try to out crazy each other & I am 100% here for it.

[creativelycomplex]

She has never done anything wrong in her life ever.

[glabzzitto]

Happy Birthday angel!!!

[sleepycoffins-and-benhargreeves]

Girlies, I think if Armand wasn't so pussy whipped with Louis, he and Claudia MIGHT have had a pretty cool friendship.

We just gotta get pass the fact that he would kill her on sight the moment he found out she's a 14 year old vampire BUT maybe his hatred of Lestat would be enough ammo for her to be alive and since he's pretty sure Lestat wouldn't die from something as simple as a throat cut 😤

Like, let Claudia and Armand be besties first before he meets Louis 😤😤😤😤