#lestattbt

[eclipsecrowned]

There he is, the Brat Prince, draped across his velvet throne. Not upright, morally or physically, but certainly swooning against the dainty setee. Hunter's hands rest against his chest, golden curls sweeping the floor below.

Lestat sighs.

The sound is a knife through the still of the night, a pointed breath against his otherwise dead nature. His wrist thrusts across his brow, lace sleeves draping across his face, kissing a too wide mouth. It flutters, too, as he repeats the gesture -- another sigh. Yet there is no answer.

He turns his head, raising his arm. Grey eyes flutter open to take in the response of his companion, and finds it wanting. They might scarcely believe what happens next.

Another needful sigh, louder, an underlying edge of irritation in the sound. Pay attention to him. // open. LESTAT DE LIONCOURT.

[eclipsecrowned]

"I think you, as any creature, should pursue happiness." Diplomacy. It's a new skill, but he's testing it's limits, til he grows bored and doffs it entirely. The kiss, though brief, paints him smug, a catty expression angling both lids and mouth. "Ah, have you forgotten what I've endured? My own coven, the bickering, the backbiting -- Not even the fun sort. It is why I both contempt and envy the harmony you've made for your merry family." Lestat reaches out, taking Aiden's hand. "But what a success it is."

"do you think i should not have a coven?" he asked curiously, though he really didn't have any true plans of abandoning his group. not when they were so important to him and he felt he'd be lost without them. "merci." he said with a smile, pressing a kiss to the other vampire's cheek. "i'm glad i could get your approval on what i have done. i don't think it is that good, lestat. i hardly see myself as an example that others should follow. i am only just a lounge bar owner."

[eclipsecrowned]

sender violently fists the receiver's hair. [21 Armand gotta do a hair meme with that long haired French bitch // @maramcna

God won't let him die.

That has never felt like a curse before. Even at his lowest, even when it all has gone to rot, how glad he has been to face the day. The absurdist, traipsing across life's stage in his harlequin suit, is this not who Lestat was born to be? Even the Fool falling off the edge of his card has such a long fall to relish.

Yet this is the moment he hopes for divine intervention. It had been a small sound, almost fragile. It had burnt in his throat, just as his scalp had razed against the rake of glassy claws, at the tugging that snapped his neck back. It was that maneuver, he knows, that tore all respect from him.

The moment his neck was wrenched back, a moan had risen from his mouth. The silence that follows is sacrosanct. He is no fool, understanding well that the elder Vampire has heard it. Now is the most opportune moment to strike, while amusement or shock halts Armand's movements.

Yet there he stands, playing the statue, still praying to a deaf Jove that the lightning strike be swift.

[eclipsecrowned]

@ debaucherub said: Sure Lestat is pretty, but he also likes to pick up rats and look at their little feet, so who's the real winner here. It's me. I win. // @luxsclaris

@ leprincegosse: Oh, it is so over for you, you buffoon. I am in your mind. Do you lie awake at night, dreaming of my attention, as I give it to les petits rats? It is alright. I understand.

[eclipsecrowned]

Vamps + Feeding Habits

DANIEL. as outlined by a book in later canon, daniel has become a perfect hunter of the evildoer, preferring to wait and make a proper selection than kill simply to feed. this gives me the impression that he’s something of a ‘picky eater’, and probably still sticks to his morals in undeath. i imagine he takes time to carefully assess his prey and, once sure of their impact on the world around them being negative, strikes quickly and efficiently. he doesn’t play with his victims, though on the odd occasion that a first strike is not lethal, he might let them know why this is happening, what they did to earn his inhuman ire. his feeding habits are as much a part of his moral crusade as his continued work as a reporter or his donations to certain factions. it’s all about making the world he wants to see, and making sure those who hurt others do not prosper. his ‘type’ is the malicious minded man, the abuser, the murderer, the monster still in human skin.

DRACULA. it's all performance to him from what we see in the novel. he's gotten good at it, too. the eternal heretic, it's about power, yes, but also profanity. he's not such a snob that he'll turn his nose up at what survival will drive him too, not so discerning that he'd stifle his palate, but he has clear desires and preferences at work when he goes hunting of his own accord. he's also less a hunter rand more a manipulator, an endurance predator stalking his prey til at last they collapse and he can descend. there's a clear underscoring of his narration that points to the pleasure he takes in destroying his targets and a framework that points to an altogether different violation that i'd prefer not to expand upon, only to say that his feedings go far beyond sustaining the body and also fuel his ego and need for cruelty. his 'type' is the virgin and the wide-eyed boy for himself, the suckling babe for his bride and descendants.

GABRIELLE. by contrast, gabrielle is far less discerning in their tastes. one might go so far as to call them arbitrary, going for whatever is available and the least hassle. the college kid walking home drunk, the geezer asleep in their armchair with the door unlocked, the late night worker who missed their bus. they exist to say you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, a sort of anti-karma.  ever the noble snob, they care little for the loss of life of ‘ordinary, simple people,’ and make sure their dalliances with the mortals are duly distanced from gabrielle themself. i do not doubt they have been pinned as a serial killer whenever they have cause to settle for an extended period, though impossible to trace. gabrielle is a tried and true bogeyman when they hunt, without remorse or serious concern for what they do to survive. their ‘type’ is the haughty, arrogant man with an attitude problem, no doubt a proxy for their late husband the marquis.

JOSETTE. thus far, she has only ever been turned by ax's lestat, and that has left its mark on her habits. almost instantaneously ousted from coven acceptance due to the nature of her turning -- defying the long ago agreed upon terms that no more fledglings should b made -- she's been largely left to her own devices with regards to her immortality. to that end, she's had to develop her own methodology and morality towards feeding. brought into the blood post-qotd, she does feel indebted to her sire, and also to the queen that made him so strong. she's interrupted many a domestic scene and stalked many a cruel husband through the night, seeking to rid the world of predators far fouler than she is. hunting men is her preference, striking something of a balance between the other two chronicled vampires mentioned so far. her 'type' is the kind of secure, belligerent man that will grovel most fearfully when she turns the tide on him.

LESTAT. to coin a descriptor from the show... non-discriminating. he drinks deeply and merrily from whoever catches his eye, without regard for gender, class, anything so trifling. opportunistic and charming, he's made a grand game of it to ignore how easy drawing in a victim is for him. by word or by force, he always gets his way. it makes no difference to him either way, as this is his nature, and this is the way it must be. his mood largely defines how things will go down, whether he's gentle death admiring the final fleeting moments of a mortal, or the brat come to lord his power and status over the chattel like the spoiled marquis' son he never got to be, or more or less a child pulling the wings off of an insect as he observes the struggle with awe and filthy delight. his 'type,' regardless, is the young man, pale-eyed, long dark hair, a ghost of something he lost, that two hearts can beat in time again once they connect in a final, fatal embrace.

VELLIOTH. which is more vital to his character: that he was a baneite before donella became his god, or that he has always been a soldier? trick question. one hand feeds the other. obedience is scripture and career to him, dominance and submission not simply reserved for the sport his mistress makes of him. he tries to be efficient about it, little drinks from trusted commanders or those who understand the truth of the crooked house szarr. however, he will drain dry any fool that crosses him that has no worth to him or his mistress, and when afield is known for either sending insubordinate underlings 'home' overnight or displaying traitors in bloodless pieces as a warning. he struggles more when a master vampire, having to play games he was ill-prepared for and performing for alliances, having to refine his style of hunting for the spotlight thrust upon him. his 'type' is his lesser, the insignificant mortal who he finds wanting and who requires the firm discipline of the black hand.

YALIZAVETA. repulsed by her own nature, vieta prefers to avoid the hunt altogether. if the opportunity presents itself, she takes her chances as merciful death, haunting the dying as she finds them. if she can help even one mortal find their peace, then perhaps she can forgive this predatory existence. this being vieta, however, that moral crusader of our time who thinks herself the authority, means she is not always right. regardless, she approaches her need to feed with endless tenderness, easing her victims into their final moments, whether through conversation or a tender hand. she gets close to them, pulls them into the swoon, drinking deep and fast so they are gone into that final euphoria in a matter of moments. she might even take a moment to tuck them back into bed, treating the husk with respect for their sacrifice. her ‘type’ is the grievously ill, those already knocking at heaven’s door that, she reasons, might look to her as salvation.

ZOLTAN. frankly, the most normal out of these listed. despite being the oldest vampire here by a landslide, he still has the trappings of humanity. his preference is not to kill, but to survive by what some settings would call 'the little drink,' taking from willing conspirators and friends across the night and supplementing his diet as needed with what can be found ethically -- would you really notice if the dude buying an extra bloody steak at the market was a little too pale under the fluorescent lights? he's a traveler by nature, not having to defend territory, and so is comfortable not living up to his 'full potential,' as some might call it. as far as he knows, he's one of the oldest vampires of a more modern era, which counts for a lot despite his uncommon diet. his 'type' is the enthusiastic goth, the kind who are thrilled to meet him and want to make polite conversation both before and after he's had a taste of them, who make him still feel valued somehow.

[eclipsecrowned]

What eats the apex predator?

There's nothing left to turn him to prey, not since Akasha's favor and unfortunate downfall. Not his own children come to play Jove, though one daughter had made a respectable attempt twice-over. Stagnation is an impossibility to him, and the life he seeks to cultivate against all odds.

No, it is boredom. When the crowds have parted, and the world narrows to a mere dressing room, that's when it strikes. He feels its teeth at his back, ignoring all offerings lain before him by the venue and larger name fans. Chocolates, afterparty invitations, phone numbers, they prove dull in this city.

But the jaws loosen after a glance at the vanity.

What distracts the beast is the bouquet before him. Twirling a rose around lissome fingers, Lestat smiles to himself, tucking the bloom behind a pale ear. He studies himself in the mirror for a long moment, still glamorous in the final number's ensemble. The blood-red rose stands stark against his curls, and he chuckles against the view.

"How thoughtful, Aiden," he croons, fingers gently tracing the petals of another pale flower. "The modern world, they never think of such things for men. I find there is so much that can be said with flowers, don't you? The Victorians had the right way of it..."

an empty dressing room hours after a big performance, there’s a bouquet of flowers with a note attached laying on their vanity // @lcvb1tes

[eclipsecrowned]

l0ustat not in the sense of endgame, never that. but l0ustat in the sense of the bruise you can't stop pressing your finger against. brief moments of madness that feel like clarity where one goes 'let's not inflict ourselves on others anymore, no one deserves that' but before the years is out one has disappeared into the night. long stretches of mutual silence. both healing from their time together but being just messy enough to think 'this time will be different,' or 'what the hell, once more with feeling.'

[eclipsecrowned]

oh no. 'stat meta wrt his arc/dynamics in the core original trilogy. aka the only reason he's a secret menu option bc these thoughts are what keeps me obsessed with the beastie.

i think on some level, like many children of broken homes, he is kind of drawn to a stable home/family framework. even if it's with a community rather than family or him as patriarch rather than a child, but he only wants it as a reflection of himself. to spite his predecessors. he doesn't want it selflessly or for good reasons to settle down. i think that's honestly as far as he could go.

i think he's someone with delusions towards settling down, but it never works. look at paris. look at cl*udia.

thinking also like. it's my theory anne understood trauma too well and embodies it in her work almost accidentally.

le.stat as the warm, spoiling, doting patriarch, who loves his children as a reflection of himself, who was the son of a tyrant who had nothing to give any of his sons due to their wretched poverty, who still never let his youngest pursue his own ways because that meant losing control of le.stat, and how le.stat in framework of father/patriarch so rebels against how he was raised.

pretty dresses, and endless dolls, and grand parties, piano lessons, letting cl*udia feel out her own hunting style. it all reads once tvl is in the mix that le.stat was overcompensating.

in the same way, l0uis is a moralizing fuddy duddy, but he also steers both his husband and child right. he teaches cl*udia to be better, and only sparks for his darling le.stat. gabrielle was the cold intellectual who never truly connected with her children, who had this passionately hateful dynamic with her husband, her jailer, her abuser. who never taught her son to read because she lacked the temperament and patience to endure his mistakes.

it also shows why l0ustat fell apart and why ak*sha and lestat as a dynamic was better for him. if he's just dragging out his own dual mommy/daddy issues with l0uis then there's no growth and no catharsis.

i also think l0uis was him desperately trying be human, for whatever reason but i have theories, where ak*sha doesn't shame or hate or mock what he is. he's a complicated creature. that's what draws her in. and he so wants to be wanted by something, or someone, special.

i'm not saying everything about him is 'wah daddy issues, wah mommy issues' bc he's still a grown man who should have a handle on his shit. but i do think it's interesting he almost parallels/rewrites his own history when given the opportunity to be a parent himself. idk if anne meant it as such but A LOT of pre qotd le.stat is just cyclical.

there is a child who was not loved (le.stat) and someday there will be a child who is loved (cl*udia) and both of them are damned whether there is love or not. and there is a beautiful man with haunting eyes (nicolas) and there is a beautiful man with haunting eyes (l0uis) and he's going to ruin them both by his love, by his craving. and there is a devil (arm*nd) and there is a devil (arm*nd) and there is a devil (arm*nd) and no matter the era or the situation there are talons at throats and a swift flight form the roof and hatred like neither has ever known.

and there is music (the theater) and there is music (the vampire lestat) and there is lestat in the grips of it all with the attention that drives him.

[eclipsecrowned]

There need never be any rules between us. - Akasha for Lestat // @akcsha

Lightning strikes somewhere in his core, the switch is flipped, and like a movie monster, something dead in him surges back to life. Electricity sparks in those grey eyes, which grow wide at her statement. She has his attention. She has all of him. At one, his throat is too tight.

He had thought himself without strings, once. But Nicki demanded Lestat never be any bigger than what he could stomach, tied him up in offal that sang beautifully beneath lissome fingers. He had meant to tether Louis, but realized too late that those strings pulled from both sides. He could still feel the blade a century later. Everything came with its price, with its rules, transactions of blood and flesh and sweet centers.

Lestat is past questioning gifts, if he ever learned to at all. So, with strings cut, he crumbles, down to his knees, the supplicant before liberty. His smile is too wide for his mouth, teeth daggers of moonstone. Golden curls cant against her wrist as he rests the crown of his head against her.

"No rules?" he echoes. "No boundaries? With the depths of our desires, you speak of utter anarchy. Why, it would be the very fall of civilization." Turning his head, his lips brush that smooth vein that flows through her arm. Their desires would be larger than society, than useless courtesy. He aches for her in all the ways a man could.

He doesn't have to pretend anymore.

"But you do make the notion so tempting."

[eclipsecrowned]

[eclipsecrowned]

A hundred heartbeats, and only one. Each is synced to the steady tick of the clock, save for his own, sluggish in his chest. Bathed in neon, he absorbs flashing shades of blue, pink, gold, onto marble skin, letting it shimmer against golden hair. His eyes are accustomed to the uneven light, how the darkness surges in and out at the whims of the beat.

Music dies, though. It always does, and a new chorus rises to greet them. The lights flicker in time with that cacophony, counting down the dying of the year. It will not be the only casualty of the night, when he is done.

Darkness ebbs into the room. He clears the dance floor. Light floods the assembled throng. He leans towards the youth that has captivated him, a tumble of raven hair, a lip like cupid's bow. Darkness engulfs a precious second. He reaches out, glassy fingernails dancing just above a shoulder.

Light erupts against the shadows. And the Vampire Lestat freezes. Staring into a stranger's eyes -- a true stranger, not merely unnamed prey -- he lashes his hand behind him, blinking owlishly as he takes a half steps retreat. "My apologies," he says, trying to laugh off the situation as his glance dances along the sea of mortal faces. The pretty youth has vanished among them.

"I thought --" He looks back at the woman, years of stage projection helping him to be heard above the maelstrom of counting. "I thought you were my friend."

a crowded nightclub on new years eve, the countdown to midnight is just about to start // @magicveiled

[eclipsecrowned]

mr. lioncourt fronted one of the biggest rock acts of the 80s, and investments were made in his name by a savvy mortal agent. he also personally invested some wealth into the night island which is now paying off for him. there is an account out there somewhere with a frankly horrifying amount of cash tied to it. there's probably magazine pieces out there lauding him as one of the wealthiest entertainers in north america. he's simply too stupid with modern technology and banking applications to access it. that, and he'd probably burn through it buying bright shiny things at walmart if he could get in, bc that part of body thief lives rent free in my head.

lady spencer was cursed to be the only child of a titled billionaire, who made his second fortune in one of the largest conglomerates in her mainverse. she in turn made her own fortune in corporate law and several solid investments. the lawsuits that spun out of her fathers fall from grace left the spencers without money -- but rich in land, stocks, and many more assets danae can exploit. she's legitimately offended by how much her father was sitting on, and tries to put a lot of it forward into charity, paying reparations to her father's victims, and genuine attempts to live within her personal means from her career in court.

mr. wayne is god's special little nepo baby. he comes from a founding family of east coast scions that married into further high society connections. i do like the movie that said the fortune was founded on railroads and a few other building blocks of the city. but the point remains that this man was born silver spoon in his mouth and unlike the other two options presented, has never had to work for any asset he has. there are parts of the internet that estimate he is worth over half a million. i have to imagine that given his drive to save the city his ancestors founded he's also plenty big on charity and building infrastructure to help even the playing field.

[eclipsecrowned]

She can be whatever she likes. To him, she is perfection, and besides, he is hardly a Hades. There's a mischief to him that speaks to Jupiter, to Mercury -- see how his hands caper to her waist now, staking some claim.

"Mmf," he mutters, burying his face against her pearly neck. He takes a long moment, allowing her scent to fill him. He swims in her for that brief eternity, then pulls his face away. "Have I displeased you in some way, ma reine?"

There she is, swooning into his lap, draping herself across him like some false damsel. For she is assuredly no damsel. More dread Persephone than a maiden of spring.

“Is something wrong, ma chér?” Audrey murmured languidly, with ease, teetering on teasing.

[eclipsecrowned]

Ah, he was a true delight, more than a pretty trinket in Armand's hoard. He laughed almost musically. For this, for that golden sound, Lestat didn't even mind being made the object of mirth. In the moment, he would be anything Daniel required of him, so long as that attention held.

"A fan," Lestat echoed, placing a hand on his chest. Truly, he was humbled, and not at all letting his ego ascend the stratosphere. That wide mouth allowed for a fair amount of teeth to flash, when he smiled. Daniel shall have to grow accustomed to this. Among their kind, joy looked much the same as a threat. It's a lesson he should be well accustomed to, having allowed Armand to be his guide into this world.

"A 'hell of a way,' yes, but I'm so glad you've made it out the other side unscathed." Daniel will be fun, he decided. None of Louis' stubborn melancholy, none of Armand's feckless hubris. Give him a few decades, and he'll shed the last of his normalcy, becoming something polished to perfection. Lestat can only hope to see a reflection of himself in that silver once Daniel is finally cast.

His smile dropped, brow knit together. "How to put this..." he hummed, canting his head into his palm. "No, I don't think Armand is consumed by thoughts of me. I doubt his capacity to maintain constant thought, in truth."

Daniel couldn't hold back a laugh when Lestat said that Louis didn't suffer fools. He spent how many years with Lestat? And decided to bring a mortal drug addict back to his apartment to tell his story. He certainly spent plenty of time around fools.

"I'm not unfriendly. I'm actually a fan of yours. The concert was amazing, even if we all almost died because of it. It would've been a hell of a way to go out." He'd been a fan of rock and rock concerts long before The Vampire Lestat entered the scene, and he had to admit Lestat mastered the genre. Being high off his mind as a newly turned vampire only made a great experience even greater.

He rolled his eyes, though he wasn't entirely immune to Lestat's charm. Daniel could easily see how Louis and Armand were drawn in by him, by his eyes and his confidence and his voice. If Armand found out he was attracted to Lestat, it would drive him insane- an idea that Daniel found hilarious.

"You believe his every waking moment is consumed by thoughts of you, don't you?" Daniel countered, though he was grinning as he said it. "You're one to talk of egos, even if you're right."

[eclipsecrowned]

The second mistake of the evening: He has drawn close. In an instant, a clever and swallows Armand's, fingers kissing against the bones of his wrist. The touch is tender, as they have never been with one another. In this, he has caught his quarry, leaving the elder vampire's hand imprisoned between the arm of the chair, and the touch of the other.

"Amusements? You read me wrong. I forgive you for it, too -- it must be so hard to see the world for what it is, with your eyes so accustomed to the dark." He smiles. "You are so much more than amusing."

His prison is easily escaped. He allows the other to dance away, leaning forward still. "Repetition is the death of us, Armand. I would not have it. You have a thousand facets, and I would court each of them, every way your rage shines in the light. It's your own fault if you insist on holding a single role." He crosses his legs idly, one foot rotating against the air. "A pity, then, that you are so blind. Have you learned nothing in all this time? There are no cycles left for me. I am singular upon the earth."

Inspecting his nails, he hums. "I understand how that frightens you, of course."

Armand snorted, turning his head away. How those words were so close to what he'd always wanted to hear from Lestat, the ones that even now, so many years later, he craved. He had settled with the fact that Lestat would never truly want him, not like Armand wanted him to, but this was a poor substitute indeed.

He rose, standing before the blonde with hands on hips, lips pursed in distaste, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Privilege indeed. I have you vexing me for no reason other than your own petty amusements." Armand placed a hand on the arm of Lestat's chair, leaning in, his voice lowering.

"You try to get a rise out of me, you succeed, and then we go back and forth. Is this what you want, Lestat? Truly? The same old thing, as always." He pushed off, turning his back on the younger vampire, arms crossed over his chest.

"Surely if anyone here has become boring, it's you, repeating the same cycles over and over and over. Aren't you tired of it, Lestat?"