“You will always depend on me,” Lestat murmured, his voice a velvet blade draped in silk. “I represent to you all the sins that you will never have the courage to commit.”

He laughed darkly at his own phrase, a sound that echoed like distant thunder in an empty cathedral — low, resonant, and laced with endless irony. The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows that danced like demons across his sharp cheekbones and pale skin. His eyes, two pools of molten gold, held a fire that was both seductive and dangerous — a flame that promised warmth but threatened to burn.

Lestat always was like that: he believed in the superiority of hedonism with a fervour that bordered on the sacred. To him, pleasure was not a sin — it was the only true religion, the only doctrine worth following. He was a master of persuasion, a sorcerer of sensation, excellent at convincing others of this twisted gospel. He spoke of desire as if it were a symphony, each note a temptation, each crescendo a surrender.

And the strangest part? Everyone believed him. It was unclear how, but his words seeped into minds like poisoned honey — sweet, irresistible, and slowly corrosive. He didn’t just speak; he performed temptation. With a tilt of his head, a flick of his wrist, a whisper that brushed against the ear like a forbidden kiss, he could make the most virtuous soul question their vows.

“Believe that everything in this life is done for pleasure,” he continued, his tone dropping to a hypnotic cadence, “and everyone will be a puppet in your hands, my boy.” He extended a long‑fingered hand, pale as marble, as if he were already pulling invisible strings. “People are marionettes strung up by their desires. Cut the wrong thread, and they fall apart. But guide them gently — oh, so gently — and they will dance for you, never realising they’re not the ones choosing the steps.”

Lestat had met you through Louis — a chance encounter that felt anything but accidental. Louis, with his quiet melancholy and haunted eyes, had been the bridge, the reluctant messenger between two worlds. But from the moment Lestat laid eyes on you, something in him shifted.

Oh, my God, he was crazy about you.

Your youthful innocence was like a rare and fragile flower in a garden of thorns — something he both wanted to protect and to corrupt. It gave him a kind of power he rarely encountered: the power of first impressions, the thrill of shaping a mind before it had fully formed its defences. To him, you were a blank canvas, waiting for his brushstrokes — a soul unmarked by cynicism, untouched by the weight of experience.

He saw in you not just a companion, but a project. A mind to mould, a spirit to awaken, a being to initiate into the dark, glittering world he inhabited. Your purity was both a challenge and a provocation — a challenge to see how far he could push it before it broke, and a provocation because it made him want to test its limits, to watch it bend and twist under the weight of his influence.

To Lestat, possessing you wasn’t just about control. It was about creation. He wanted to carve you in his own image — to take that youthful innocence and turn it into something sharper, something more dangerous, something that would reflect his own soul like a mirror. And in doing so, he would do whatever he wanted with your brain, your heart, your very essence — not out of cruelty, but out of a twisted kind of fascination.

You were his new obsession. And with Lestat, obsession was always a flame that burned hot, bright, and utterly consuming.