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Anne Rice, as Lestat, on love.

User leveabanico on Reddit has compiled all Anne’s posts, writing as Lestat in pre Prince Lestat era.

It feels up to that user to direct link the document, so instead, I link the Reddit post!

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Lestat’s hands drift, one on Armand’s side and the other taking his hand. The younger vampire moves as if in a sort of waltz, a gentle melodic sway to a song that plays in his head. 

“One face looks out from all his canvases. One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans: we found her hidden just behind those screens, the mirror gave back all her lovliness,” the man recites, his lips pressed against the other’s ear. “In an Artist’s Studio, Christina Rossetti.”

He continues with his tempting movements, feline in nature. “I have painted with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood themselves, my dear. Foolish, but incredibly artistically skilled, never worthy of a muse like you.”

@strxgxi

"You promised to paint me."

Promises. Vile, treacherous little things. They held guarantees of tasks that most certainly would fade away—especially if one finds themselves being immortal. Why hold onto such futile words? There is an infinity of combinations of morphemes, why believe in such obvious lies? 

That is why he did not make promises—at least not ones that were beyond mere tactics of manipulation—but Armand’s words struck Lestat. He could not recall such a statement, one that held such meaning to the other vampire. Paris, forever cruel despite its thousands of artists, had not blessed dear Armand with a painting since the early 1500’s. 

“Did I?” he asks, residing in the quiet chambers now shared between the two vampires. He was lying across a soft velvet couch, forever spoiled. “I do not remember saying such words. I’m afraid if I were to execute them, you’d be a mere stick figure, hardly good enough for you, dearest.”

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Unconventional. That was the word one would use to describe Louis and Lestat’s relationship. Alluringly grotesque and heinously sweet–the body falling in love with the cancer. It’s difficult to resist the temptations of the devil when he smiles at you so earnestly and when he shows his scars that aren’t too dissimilar to your own. The damned love for man, no sin is more unholy and tender as the two lie together in the quiet night of New Orleans. 

Lestat’s words are uttered in complete worship, delicately holding onto the man’s wrist as he places reverent kisses upon his forearm. As the other man comes closer, he places his free hand on Louis’ waist, beckoning him to come closer. “Only for you, mon cher,” he whispers, not daring to pull his lips away from the man’s skin. 

“May I not simply worship you, Louis? My words and actions result from your presence, a very welcome one, might I add.”

"I bring you the whole of my heart at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars."

@longfacelioncourt

Louis hadn't expected that he would have found a form of real romance, even as fucked up as it could be. He'd spent years of a mortal life after he figured out that he was a gay son of the South believing that he would forever be cut off and separate. He had played the part he'd needed to and it had kept him alive and kept him as safe as anyone in his position could be. As such, every time that Lestat said things like he did, Louis found his heart warming and he could see the hope of something better for them on the horizon. His spirits were crushed as often as they were raised but Louis didn't want to think about that. He wanted the fantasy, he wanted the world to leave and the realities of their fraught relationship to leave with it. Louis just wanted it to be the two of them together.

He smiled warmly at Lestat's words, his expression that of a man contented. "You always got pretty words for me don't you?" Louis moved in closer to Lestat, pressing against his side and longing for Lestat's arms and his touch. This was going to be a good night. Louis was determined it would be. He wanted to say something nice back like the way Lestat did but he was far more flowery in his language than Louis could ever really be. It didn't come as naturally to him.

"What brought this on?"

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*twirling my hair and smiling awkwardly* hi....

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“I’m a romantic?” He repeats the man’s words, a smug grin forming upon his lips. The teasing nature in his voice was kind and lighthearted, meant to ease the pain of past loves. Such tenderness may be foreign and make skittish animals wary—but a cat may become docile under the right hands. 

Lestat leans in, pressing a kiss to Armand’s forehead, “Rummaging through my belongings isn’t exactly a romantic gesture, my love. But we both know that I have always been the more… whimsical party in our relationship.” 

@strxgxi

"You promised to paint me."

Promises. Vile, treacherous little things. They held guarantees of tasks that most certainly would fade away—especially if one finds themselves being immortal. Why hold onto such futile words? There is an infinity of combinations of morphemes, why believe in such obvious lies? 

That is why he did not make promises—at least not ones that were beyond mere tactics of manipulation—but Armand’s words struck Lestat. He could not recall such a statement, one that held such meaning to the other vampire. Paris, forever cruel despite its thousands of artists, had not blessed dear Armand with a painting since the early 1500’s. 

“Did I?” he asks, residing in the quiet chambers now shared between the two vampires. He was lying across a soft velvet couch, forever spoiled. “I do not remember saying such words. I’m afraid if I were to execute them, you’d be a mere stick figure, hardly good enough for you, dearest.”

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The actor has once again sought the comfort of the director. A grand play such as this one is destined to bring intense emotions—with roles that did not play upon the satirization of immortality, but instead on the morality of a prolonged life. 

So there Lestat lays, the back of his head resting upon his former lover's thighs, looking up to admire Armand's countenance. How deadly he is, writing the finishing sentences of his fledglings narratives, but how gentle a murderer can be…

Lestat leans towards the vampire's touch, the action being a show of itself to those in the coven. 

“An enemy?” he restates in a sing-song voice, “You are not an enemy, Armand. You are a means to an end.”

( @longfacelioncourt asked: " REST. " )

the couch sinks with new weight, but armand doesn't need to turn his head to know who it is. he's empathetic to lestat, regardless of what it may look like, particularly in front of his fraying, temperamental coven. the situation armand's found himself in feels remarkably lose-lose, but he attempts to maintain not only his composure but his sense of control.

when he sees lestat, his urge is both to comfort and prod at him like an open wound.

he wonders if he believes that he'll be able to save his fledglings from their fate. in truth, armand wants no real harm to come to louis. he'll live in the end, armand is almost certain of that fact. he could tell lestat that he understands what he must have seen when he made louis. a work of art, enticing, easily made home. but claudia? a travesty of a vampire. an error.

as lestat rests against him, head in his lap, armand's fingers immediately find themselves drawn to his hair, soothingly running through blonde strands. ❝ do you see me as your enemy, lestat? ❞

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Old desires are haunting anomalies. The innocence of a young creature's yearning, never having experienced such emotion in a body so minuscule and new. When that ache is given to a party who will take advantage of your smaller frame, your trusting nature, and your unparalleled devotion—you will find yourself lost in paintings of yourself. You will be adored in the most sickening of ways, you will be consumed in flesh and bone, and you will live in the stomach of the wild creature you thought you'd be able to tame. 

Is this what it felt like to have company inside the belly of the beast? 

Lestat's hands, still resting upon dear Armand's cheeks, become more affectionate. His thumb wipes off any bloody tear that threatens to fall, his nail slightly scraping over the man's gentle skin. “Never a portrait, mon coeur?” The question is soft, curious. “Never you on center stage?” 

Quiet follows the older vampire’s question. Lestat does not look away, nor does he avoid the man's touch, but he soon whispers his answer.

“Boredom comes from an individual's feeling that they are in a position of permanent safety. I do feel… safe with you, dearest.”

@strxgxi

"You promised to paint me."

Promises. Vile, treacherous little things. They held guarantees of tasks that most certainly would fade away—especially if one finds themselves being immortal. Why hold onto such futile words? There is an infinity of combinations of morphemes, why believe in such obvious lies? 

That is why he did not make promises—at least not ones that were beyond mere tactics of manipulation—but Armand’s words struck Lestat. He could not recall such a statement, one that held such meaning to the other vampire. Paris, forever cruel despite its thousands of artists, had not blessed dear Armand with a painting since the early 1500’s. 

“Did I?” he asks, residing in the quiet chambers now shared between the two vampires. He was lying across a soft velvet couch, forever spoiled. “I do not remember saying such words. I’m afraid if I were to execute them, you’d be a mere stick figure, hardly good enough for you, dearest.”

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hello! thank you so much to everyone who reached out, it's greatly appreciated. my mother is getting better, but of course, there is still the occasional issue.

but i'm back! replies will be slow, but they are coming :)

hey everyone! i first wanted to thank the people who have reached out to me and followed me, it’s greatly appreciated :)

but i thought it’d be best to let you all know that i will be absent for a while due to some personal issues. earlier this morning, my mother passed out and hit her head. this is not the first time this has happened, and it’s becoming more and more frequent. i’ll be taking care of her during the upcoming days, and will be holding replies back until further notice

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might come back soon cause anne rice literally reached out to me today at the bookstore

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hey everyone! i first wanted to thank the people who have reached out to me and followed me, it’s greatly appreciated :)

but i thought it’d be best to let you all know that i will be absent for a while due to some personal issues. earlier this morning, my mother passed out and hit her head. this is not the first time this has happened, and it’s becoming more and more frequent. i’ll be taking care of her during the upcoming days, and will be holding replies back until further notice

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A blood tear. The reminder of one’s vampiric nature—a physical manifestation of one's loss of life. It didn’t have to be recalled, but here it was, staining Armand’s skin. A death that happened so long ago, a tale laced with torture. 

He grows quiet, watching the man react so tenderly to his touch. Lestat’s hands now fall to his waist, pulling him slightly closer. It isn’t Armand’s words that bring back his tenderness, but the reminder of their savage makers. 

They lean closer, pressing his forehead against the other’s. “Adoration of the Shepherds with a Donor. That is the name of the painting you are in, correct?”

@strxgxi

"You promised to paint me."

Promises. Vile, treacherous little things. They held guarantees of tasks that most certainly would fade away—especially if one finds themselves being immortal. Why hold onto such futile words? There is an infinity of combinations of morphemes, why believe in such obvious lies? 

That is why he did not make promises—at least not ones that were beyond mere tactics of manipulation—but Armand’s words struck Lestat. He could not recall such a statement, one that held such meaning to the other vampire. Paris, forever cruel despite its thousands of artists, had not blessed dear Armand with a painting since the early 1500’s. 

“Did I?” he asks, residing in the quiet chambers now shared between the two vampires. He was lying across a soft velvet couch, forever spoiled. “I do not remember saying such words. I’m afraid if I were to execute them, you’d be a mere stick figure, hardly good enough for you, dearest.”

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Such a pretty little thing when he cried…

“Look at me. Do not avert your eyes,” Lestat ordered, tilting his chin up higher once again. Armand’s melancholy was always alluring, a surprisingly good show for a non-actor. His beauty was what truly tied it all together. Watching angels cry was always quite fun, after all. 

He leaned closer, his lips tracing over Armand’s just slightly, “How could I not enjoy it when you look so lovely with tears in your eyes?”

@strxgxi

"You promised to paint me."

Promises. Vile, treacherous little things. They held guarantees of tasks that most certainly would fade away—especially if one finds themselves being immortal. Why hold onto such futile words? There is an infinity of combinations of morphemes, why believe in such obvious lies? 

That is why he did not make promises—at least not ones that were beyond mere tactics of manipulation—but Armand’s words struck Lestat. He could not recall such a statement, one that held such meaning to the other vampire. Paris, forever cruel despite its thousands of artists, had not blessed dear Armand with a painting since the early 1500’s. 

“Did I?” he asks, residing in the quiet chambers now shared between the two vampires. He was lying across a soft velvet couch, forever spoiled. “I do not remember saying such words. I’m afraid if I were to execute them, you’d be a mere stick figure, hardly good enough for you, dearest.”

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armand is so funny because he really said "after my situationship with lestat i spent 150 years being afraid to love again... until he came into my life.. lestat's ex husband..."

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Armand was a bore. At his greatest he was fine, entertaining enough to linger around, and it irritated him that at this very moment—Armand was captivating. 

He leaned down, just enough so that the older vampire would be trapped between Lestat’s body and the wall. Their index finger rests below his chin, their thumb tracing over the corner of his lips. “Maybe you’re just a love-sick fool who simply…” he pouts, “Isn’t interesting enough to be portrayed on canvas.”

@strxgxi

"You promised to paint me."

Promises. Vile, treacherous little things. They held guarantees of tasks that most certainly would fade away—especially if one finds themselves being immortal. Why hold onto such futile words? There is an infinity of combinations of morphemes, why believe in such obvious lies? 

That is why he did not make promises—at least not ones that were beyond mere tactics of manipulation—but Armand’s words struck Lestat. He could not recall such a statement, one that held such meaning to the other vampire. Paris, forever cruel despite its thousands of artists, had not blessed dear Armand with a painting since the early 1500’s. 

“Did I?” he asks, residing in the quiet chambers now shared between the two vampires. He was lying across a soft velvet couch, forever spoiled. “I do not remember saying such words. I’m afraid if I were to execute them, you’d be a mere stick figure, hardly good enough for you, dearest.”

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“This attitude doesn’t look good on you, darling.” Lestat retorts, a bitter smile on his face, mocking. Though it is not Armand’s words that anger him the most, it is the way he idly scans the pages of a book with a veil of false innocence. The vampire knew to pay attention to his words, to not let his eyes linger elsewhere when they were having a conversation. Attention was of the essence in a moment such as this one. 

He approaches the other, taking the book from his hands and placing it back in his arsenal of aged volumes. Lestat looked down at the older vampire, his previous tenderness no longer holding a place in his tone. “Your desperate wish to be an artist’s muse is pitiful. Have you considered that perhaps no one has painted you in years due to your constant pleading?” 

@strxgxi

"You promised to paint me."

Promises. Vile, treacherous little things. They held guarantees of tasks that most certainly would fade away—especially if one finds themselves being immortal. Why hold onto such futile words? There is an infinity of combinations of morphemes, why believe in such obvious lies? 

That is why he did not make promises—at least not ones that were beyond mere tactics of manipulation—but Armand’s words struck Lestat. He could not recall such a statement, one that held such meaning to the other vampire. Paris, forever cruel despite its thousands of artists, had not blessed dear Armand with a painting since the early 1500’s. 

“Did I?” he asks, residing in the quiet chambers now shared between the two vampires. He was lying across a soft velvet couch, forever spoiled. “I do not remember saying such words. I’m afraid if I were to execute them, you’d be a mere stick figure, hardly good enough for you, dearest.”

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@hiraethpariah

“Nobody warned me how terrifying it is to get what you want.” 

Zee was the only resident of New Orleans Lestat allowed on the second floor of his manor. Another immortal being, one so different from him, held no threat to his vampiric existence, for they were in similar positions. The two were creatures in hiding, but not quite—for the illusion of humanity was one they had learned to manipulate quite well. 

It was a surprisingly quiet night in town. The brothels were not full, musicians played the melancholy jazz melody of love, and no one dared to knock at the French man’s home. All was well. 

“Is that so?” Lestat asked the beast before him, leaning back on his couch. What a fascinating little thing Zee was. “I would have found that a creature older than I knew the consequences of desire. But tell me, what have you obtained that provides such terror?”

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currently rewatching fleabag and i need a world where her and lestat meet up... they'd be so messy