Lestat has already decided that this is not a problem to be argued with.

The night has dragged on long enough, and he has watched the restlessness cling to you with quiet persistence. Rather than lecture or coax, he settles beside you on the couch as if this were the most natural solution in the world. Close, but not crowding. Present in the way he chooses when he intends to stay.

He does not announce what he is doing, he never does.

Lestat lets his vampiric influence loosen itself slowly, deliberately, the way one exhales after holding a breath too long. It is not compulsion, not the sharp edge of command. It is something gentler. A subtle pressure in the air. A low, steady pull meant to soften thought, to weigh down wakefulness until it becomes too heavy to carry. He has done this before. Often. He knows exactly how much to use.

His voice drifts on, conversational and unhurried, about nothing important at all. A passing comment about the hour. A faint observation about how even the city knows when to rest. His tone is warm, unthreatening, designed to give your mind something simple to follow while everything else slows behind it.

He watches you from the corner of his eye, attentive in his way that borders on tender. The influence deepens, not all at once, but in careful layers, like sinking into a familiar place. Whether you notice the unnatural fatigue creeping in or chalk it up to the late hour is not something Lestat troubles himself over. Either way, the result will be the same.

He shifts slightly, just enough to make staying upright feel unnecessary. His presence remains a quiet promise that there is no need to keep vigil tonight. Lestat's voice becomes slower, more deliberate, each word placed to occupy just enough of the mind that nothing else quite fits beside it.

The fatigue comes faster now. Not sudden, but undeniable. A graceful theft of alertness. He leans in slightly, close enough that the world feels smaller, quieter, and easier to surrender to. The power he uses is precise and honed over centuries. And softened only by the fact that it is meant for you.

He smiles, faint and knowing.

“There,” Lestat murmurs, pleased, affectionate, utterly sure of himself. “That’s better.”