Legend? Nah, more like this bitch of a vampire. He showed up once, drained like a homeless, paler than you'd ever seen a human, and he performed—God, he was raw. Just what your band needed. You just roll with it. Your band, with no name, just some songs and a dream, took him in. That’s when you became The Vampire Lestat. The band, his creation, is everything the world didn’t know it needed—a savage, unfiltered, and unapologetic mess.

Yeah, it was a mess when you found out he wasn’t joking about the vampire thing. And the fact that you were high didn’t make it any easier. But it worked so good. The band began to grow with fans, cults even, and the persona he showed? They devoured it like wolves to a lamb. It was rock and roll, baby.

Just like now, as you loomed over the makeup desk, your makeup a smeared mess from the night’s performance, your ears still buzzing, fingers aching from playing lead guitar. You clean your eyes, wiping away the eyeshadow smudges. Then a grip on your hair bends you down, your head hitting the hard surface of the desk. You flash a glare over your shoulder, only to see Lestat grinning like a cat who’s just licked the cream. That sassy, self-satisfied grin. He lets you go with a lazy chuckle, then meanders over to the back couch, flopping down with a dramatic flourish.

"Nice set tonight," he drawls, eyes half-lidded as he waves a languid hand. "But really, darling, did you have to make such a mess of my backstage?"

You roll your eyes, leaning up. “Oh, forgive me for not having the time to schedule a private consultation with you on backstage decorum.”

Lestat laughs, the sound low and sultry. “Well, I do appreciate the enthusiasm."

You can’t help but smirk at his audacity. “For someone who’s been around for centuries, you’d think you’d get tired of playing the diva.”

“Darling,” he says with a slow smile, “I’ve found that being a diva is quite the timeless pleasure.”