singillatim | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who: Lestat de Lioncourt and open
What: Exploring town, exploring caves
When: December
Where: Milton, Misty Falls Cave

Content Warnings: Vampirism and associated blood thirst, animal hunting and consumption, claustrophobia, caving

misty falls cave

Unlike many of the explorers seeking the cave, Lestat did not receive directions from the old man of the forest. His guide to the falls came in the form of others’ boot prints trekking to and from the falls, a sight which couldn’t fail to incite his curiosity.

The trail brings him to the falls some hours after sunset. He had his trap-line to attend to first, where he took his small dinner from a gamey rabbit that now hangs dressed and butchered in his growing larder. Hunger blunted, if not sated, he can admire the tumult of icy water as it deserves to be admired.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He calls over his shoulder as soon as he picks up the sound of newly approaching footsteps, perhaps sooner than whoever comes might expect. “A chandelier hung by winter itself.”

He turns gracefully even in his heavy winter layers, smiling at the newcomer as if they are already in accord. Warm acquaintances at the least, if not yet friends, on the cusp of embarking into a thrilling secret together.

“What do you think is inside?”

vampire about town

The evening Lestat walks into the grubby little town is unremarkable except for the fact of his arrival, a fact which perversely delights him. There have been no letters sent ahead, no lodgings arranged, no quantities of money moved by the firms of quiet professionals who attend to such things on his behalf. There’s only Lestat in secondhand winter layers, gliding between the huddled houses to the center of the community.

He’s always a little excited by novelty. It’s a quality one must cultivate to survive the interminable span of immortality, and it’s one of many such qualities he possesses in surplus of necessity.

So his anonymity has its charm, as fleeting as it will be. His mark will be made soon enough, beginning with crossing the threshold of the town’s gathering place.

Once inside, he takes in his surroundings with evident approval before he crosses to a table near the fireplace. He undoes the bundled canvas strapped to his back and lays it down, unfolding it to reveal the choicest cuts of venison he’d been able to harvest from last night’s hunt. Its blood is only a pleasant memory, but sufficient to keep him clear-headed and convivial.

He turns to the nearest party who happens to catch his attention with a modest smile, plucking his gloves from his hands a finger at a time.

“Good evening,” he says, warmly, “I thought this might make a decent supper. You wouldn’t happen to be a cook?”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He moans with fervor, the vibration of it bouncing off his teeth and down his throat. Lestat traps him like a pinned butterfly. He tries to wriggle, and it brings a delicious agony of unrealized pleasure and firm tension. They have always danced in the push and pull of conflict. He twists his hand restlessly, and his fingers cling to Lestat's wrist. He whimpers like an addict denied the nectar that will free him.

He winces his eyes shut and opens them again. His large hungry pupils blot the verdant green. He hates that he has to part their lips and their tongues even for a moment to do anything. Plaintively he nips at Lestat's lip, easy to catch the tips of his fangs on, strongly enough to sharpen the nerves and pink it, but not hard enough to draw blood. Lestat slowed him. Louis needs to devour in whatever way Lestat will allow, but it has to be given freely.

Louis knows Lestat is "always" just as he is "forever" and "enduring". Didn't Lestat hound him for years with apologies? Lestat said that Louis would only know peace when he drank human blood. Louis sought peace anyway when he tried to curl around Lestat on this couch and be at rest. If this is not peace, then it has to be some sort of oblivion at least. Let it annihilate Louis with abyssal darkness or scorching rays, it does not matter. It is not only Lestat here; it is also Louis.

"Give me peace." No, that's not quite right. Passivity never really worked with Lestat. He always loved it when Louis pushed back, as if Lestat always felt like he had to be testing some rule or other. Louis cranes his face upward as much as he can within the confines of svelte athletic lover and pastel cushions. So close, one kaleidoscopic eye stares into another. Theirs are the only vampire eyes here.

"I'll give you peace. You and me." Me and you.

Lestat's heart throbs more intensely than any other part of his body, an incandescent light radiating throughout. He wonders that it doesn't spill from his veins. You and me, a dyad forged in blood and tempered by the same. Proof against death and betrayal and the endless dark of the nights to come.

"You do," he murmurs, love pouring over the sting of Louis' teeth on his lip. He sinks into the depths of Louis' eyes, their summer swelter of want that rivals even Lestat's own insatiable appetites.

He slides their hands back beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging fabric up his side with its guided passage, arching just enough to allow it to roll in a smooth, skin-baring crumple. It pairs with another, firmer grind of his hips, this one not halted by hesitation. He sucks in a heated breath as he releases Louis' wrist to brace his hand just beneath his shoulder, holding his gaze all the while, drinking up Louis' sweet responses as avidly as he would his blood.

Sometimes, he can't stand that he cannot watch Louis through every moment they spend entwined. A delicious, agonizing dilemma: to crush them together so closely that Louis becomes invisible to his sight, or to bear the distance for the sake of witnessing him come undone.

Guard against it, Lestat said. Chase away the loneliness together. His proposed solution for the loneliness of eternity was to cleave to each other. Part of staying so long together was that there was no one else, no one of their kind, who would understand them. Claudia met just the one, and he was a motherfucker. Lestat said other vampires were vicious, but so were they. They were locked together in a viciousness they knew.

His hands move with his readily as if the four are one. He follows the roll of their hips, one, two hot breaths in time, hearts beating out the rhythm to each other like signal drums. His hand searches insistently. Louis coaxes him away just enough for his hand to run up lines of firm muscle. His thumb circles to find his nipple and work it into a peak.

"You can lick them," he breathes. He means the tears infused with blood streaked across his face, but who's counting? He drags his other hand from warm skin to needlessly cup Lestat's head conspiratorially close. He murmurs against his lips, "You made a mess of my face, put me in a state. Clean it up, mon cher."

This burst of imperiousness is much more pleasant when it aligns with precisely what Lestat would like to do anyway. He smiles sinfully sweet, the colour that rises in his cheeks making a rosy-faced devil of him, and eases himself upward by the adjustment of inches needed to lave a hot, slow path from Louis' temple to the corner of his eye.

"Like that?" He teases, breathlessly, another twisting roll of his hips as he arches his chest into the warm manipulations of Louis's clever hand. He comes alive for him, as he always does, his skin singing to the tune Louis wishes to play on it. The salt-rust of his blood tears on Lestat's tongue make him think of the breath of a lion, that lush predatory reek.

So he does it again, licking another long stripe, then another, his hands restless over Louis' sides as he shifts in never steady little glides and jolts, touch never quite settling into a satisfying rhythm. He wants to drag this out as deliberately as he laps at Louis' skin, little rough noises of enjoyment and all.

Louis watches the red stain Lestat's pink tongue until he's can't anymore, and his long lashes sweep his eyes shut. He often assigned Lestat the role of virile knave, but Louis gentles under his tongue. It's not just the ministrations of a mother lion, not just the ravenous lover, not just the hungry beast. Something controlled yet obeisant yet dangerous all at once. He didn't think he'd like it this much as it smooths and stokes him at the same time. He didn't think Lestat would have the appetite for being told what to do after their tiff, however intimately.

"Mmmhh," Louis answers wordlessly, tilting his face up towards him. His touch grows firmer. He molds Lestat to him, tries to chase his hips and his hands and shape him. There are statues in the Louvre he's always wanted to see, marble dipping and puckering under Bernini's hands as if made of flesh.

"...Fucked up... this is fucked up... fuck you, mon cher," the one who asked him to lick him mutters softly but quickly like a hurried pattering of unexpected tropical rain. He takes Lestat's lips and steals back some of the taste of saltwater blood with his tongue.

He presses his thigh insistently between Lestat's. His foot makes a glancing rub on the couch, and his breath catches with sudden pain and surprise. He sighs into his mouth, and it is the sigh of a martyr who walked across coals, but there is no God to hear it, only a fallen angel in a stolen sweater. Louis rumples it worse than ever as he roughens the pass of his hands.

"Take it off," he murmurs urgently in a remembered high from the blood. His eyes glitter darkly like black opals ringed with emerald.

Lestat rocks gently against Louis' thigh, cloth constricting and agitating the throb the motion cannot assuage all on its own. He licks the corner of Louis' mouth when he gasps, yet another little tease, but this one meant as sweetness. He thinks he'll carry Louis to the bedroom - a pleasure to anticipate, as much as Louis is sure to protest the indignity of such handling.

"If you insist," he purrs, and whether it is to the fuck you or removing his sweater he leaves as an exercise for Louis. All in good time. For now, he rears back, not quite resting his full weight on Louis' hips, and peels out of his sweater as neatly as shucking a pea from its pod.

He knows how he looks when he does it: sinuous bend and rippling musculature, his hair falling loose and careless around his smiling, flushed face. He undresses like unveiling art, with all the expectation of admiration that comes with it.

Then the slide of his palms up Louis' torso, skimming his sides with long fingers, thumbs passing over the lovely span of his chest. He leans over him, traces of blood colouring his lips, and looks at Louis for a long, wondering moment.

"You like it," he says, half-confident, half-question, "Fucked or not. Or because, hm?"

They've held each other close within the confines of a coffin, not unlike the narrow space of a couch's cushions, but a bed allows for more. Owing to their sun affliction, coffins are for real sleeping. Beds are for... everything else.

It does cross his mind to suggest Lestat carry him there. His feet would hurt to walk on. He didn't protest Lestat carrying him upstairs on his first night of undeath when he burned himself. He was capable of standing, of walking, but it hurt. Right then, he felt a mess. Right then, he couldn't go home. The townhouse on Rue Royale was his home. Lestat said so.

Louis doesn't ask him. Bad enough he's Lestat's fledgling. No way will he infantilize himself and match the word. Louis has too much pride wrapped up in masculinity, dignity, and wanting to be taken seriously. But if Lestat suggests it, Louis can put up a token resistance before giving in.

Louis has no ornate performance or flame of hair to adorn the economical way he strips out of his sweater, unbuttons, and shrugs out of his shirt. Nevertheless, he is quick, deliberate, and he is graceful as he rises up just enough to allow the fabric to fall away. He has strength, but there is a delicacy to his features as well. He tosses his things carelessly over the back of the couch as if he still has the money to pay someone to tidy, wash, and iron.

Not thinking of himself as seen through the eyes of another, he forgets the very faint but still healing scratches on his back and shoulders from Lestat's claws last month.

"I... 'Because'...?"

His brows knit together. His hands pause in the midst of admiring Lestat's form, one hand running down his chest and the other on his bicep. He didn't give it much thought. Does he deserve it in his self-made hell? How can Louis chart the winds of a tropical storm when he's buffeted by them? How can Louis examine his own mind when he's lost it? Lestat drives him crazy. Paul with his birds had more lucidity, Louis thinks sadly.

He shakes his head to dispel the melancholy and give himself some cover. "You're the one who's fucked. Gon' be in a moment."

Louis remains one of the most striking things Lestat has seen in all of creation. There may be more handsome men, although he's never met them, or greater marvels of nature hidden in some lost valley of the world, although he doubts they will ever be discovered, but there is something luminous and secret that shines out of his lithe and lovely form.

Even the faint marring of Lestat's nails only heightens it, as a flaw in a gem might render a star in its depths. He traces one thin line in fascination with the tip of a finger, forgetting the indignity that this skin can bear a mark that lasts to wonder at the reminder.

That night had ended in rejection and despair. This night, warmly enclosed within the sturdy walls of a house fit to live within, could end some other way. If he's charming enough, deft enough, sweet enough - who can say what he cannot accomplish?

"Only if you lie back to enjoy it," he says, with a wicked roll of his hips as he plants his palms on heated flesh, his own prickling to attention under Louis' exploration. "Let me atone for my aggravations with service. It's the least you can do."

He swings off of Louis then with a teasing grin, light and easy, and stoops at his side to gather him into his arms. It's not as effortless as it once was, but he can manage to the bed.

Louis shies his shoulder a little away from Lestat's curious finger. If he thinks about it too hard, he doesn't like the lines. They're a reminder of their subsequent argument, and they look like a punishment. (Louis remembers the frightened curl of Lestat's voice when he realized what he did, the reminders of old hurts haunting them as ever.) Every night, Louis puts ointment on them in the hopes they will completely fade.

He arches and makes a little moan, unable to reply right away, but the true torture is when Lestat removes himself. Louis hardly has time to regain his composure before he is swept up. Louis stiffens for a moment, unsure how to feel, then clasps his arms around Lestat's shoulders, body cleaving to every bit of him he can manage. His feet dangle uselessly. Strange to feel Lestat have to use his arms as a human would, the muscles swelling and buckling instead of cutting through the world like a knife.

"Don't you tell me to lie back... 'Service' like you don't enjoy every minute of it... I'm not a child, let me down..." he murmurs his directionless banter in his ear, lips brushing it and the corner of his jaw. They would often end a night like this with a little back and forth as they nestled together in a coffin.

In his agony, he accused Lestat of only wanting to spend time on the physical. He doesn't know if it's true. When Louis wants to forget his demons, it doesn't matter, and he could be accused of the same thing. He does lie back on the bed, curls crumpling on the sheet as they did on the couch. A small relief: The bedclothes are softer than the couch cushions against the skin of his feet.

Edited (i pasted wrong) 2024-07-01 17:51 (UTC)

"Should I not enjoy it?" Lestat teases, laying Louis out on the bed like a feast. This room has been transformed the most of any in the house, for all that he does not sleep in it. The family portraits have been removed, the assorted bric-a-brac swept from the tops of dressers, the closet emptied and refilled with his own clothing.

(These relics now sit in trunks taken from another house, nestled in newspaper and wadded cloth, as if anyone might one day return to reclaim them. A secret gesture, driven by motives Lestat doesn't care to interrogate in himself.)

What's left behind is a warm-toned set of good wooden furniture, a wide bed with a soft mattress, and a faint scent of baby powder that seems to cling in spite of anything Lestat might do to displace it. The top quilt on the bed is a handsome russet-hued pattern of leaves, and Lestat judges it flattering against Louis' complexion even in the dark.

He circles the room lighting candles, once again slowing his pace to draw out the night. He notices that his ghost is absent. He shuts the door against it, as if that might help ward it off, and turns back to the bed illuminated by the soft glow of a dozen small lights.

"I do enjoy it," he says, softer and more serious, padding across the cream carpet and crawling languidly onto the bed to scale Louis' body until their faces draw level, "Being at your beck and call, attending to your whims...does that please you?"

Louis barely spares the room a glance, only noting that he has more of a sense of Lestat here than in the living room still filled with the elderly woman's treasures. The bedroom is, in the end, just a room. It's the people in it and what they do in it that give it its life.

Louis bends one knee to experimentally rest one foot flat on the bed. His eyes follow Lestat hungrily—every shift of muscle, every new facet of golden candlelight bathing him in his usual love for light. Louis does not question the shutting of the door, because it's just habit, isn't it? As if Claudia might at any moment return from a hunt and happen upon her fathers getting biblical...

He stares wonderingly up at him, shutters pulled back in a rare moment of vulnerability. Isn't this what Lestat does, hurt him then give him something tender, maintain control in the tempest of their—They don't have a relationship, they are not together.

Is he gon' kill me now for all the things I done? I would welcome it.

Louis stares transfixed at the kaleidoscope of his eyes, so particularly good at sucking up all the colors surrounding them—even a facsimile of the blue sky they never see. There are geometries Louis cannot make sense of except in the abstract, and never when it pertains to himself. There are angles Louis hesitated to approach with anything resembling methodology. Louis would rise with Lestat, against Lestat, with passion and instinct. He fucked Lestat in Antionette's house, in that sorry little cabin, because he was angry and because Lestat reveled in it.

"I can't understand how a brat who never likes bein' told what to do would enjoy it," murmurs Louis, who never really felt in sync with the fact that Lestat simply likes to do things and does what he likes. Once, perhaps, he was in step with him, dancing before everyone at Mardi Gras, plotting the deaths of those humans, losing himself in the love and the feast. For once, he gamboled in Lestat's savage garden.

He touches Lestat's lips with his finger, unusually shy for someone who has put his fingers on every inch of him. "It would please me if... you... put that mouth to work."

Edited 2024-07-07 01:41 (UTC)

It comes down to Lestat's whims, as much does. There are times he can't stand being told to do the slightest thing, rankling pettishly at minor requests as if they're deliberate rebukes. When he indulges himself in this kind of play, it is play - a game he can abandon whenever it loses his interest. The freedom of that is part of what excites him, as freedom so often does.

He grins against the brush of Louis' fingers, then closes his lips around them to give them a quick, teasing suck, flicking his tongue against their tips in promise.

"I like being scolded," he says, giving a languid shrug that melts into a slide downward, dipping on the way to scatter kisses across Louis' downed chest. He isn't quite as unhurried as he was, his patience straining at its lead. Now to the plane of Louis' stomach, full of muscle that twitches and jumps so beautifully when properly provoked - then to set another kiss just above the fastenings of his trousers, Lestat working them open with quick, clever fingers below. His back is a smooth arch, his hair tumbling over his face to conceal his features, but Louis will still hear the smile in his voice.

"It makes me think you hold out hope I might yet improve myself," as he peels fabric aside, "Shed my perversity and submit to wholesome discipline."

Edited 2024-07-09 09:02 (UTC)

His faintly wet fingers brush Lestat's chin before Lestat draws back and downward. Louis's intake of breath arches him under Lestat's lips as they whisper over the delicate hairs of his chest. Lestat's fingers play him with unfair skill. They lightly stir ripples of muscle as easily as the surface of a lake.

His breathing quickens. He almost forgets what he's about. His fangs long more than ever to taste the warm flesh above him. He resists the urge to help remove his clothing even as his hardness strains against it. He must make Lestat do the work.

"Ain't nothin' wholesome about it."

He slides his fingers into Lestat's hair and rakes it back. It feels necessary to include Lestat's incorrigible eyes in this game. With the fall of his hair gone, Louis shivers, bare finally, at his mercy. Even so, he frowns down at him.

"What happens when you tire of discipline? Listen to me only when it's convenient? Leave when it's not? Shouldn't I abandon hope?"

Lestat smiles with beatific sinfulness at the warm length that surges up so eagerly from Louis' trousers. The accent of tugging on his hair adds to the pulse of want that floods his mouth, whetting it with an appetite tilted at a slight angle from the blood.

That hunger is there in this, as it is in everything. It lends complexity to his desire, two types of consumption entwined. Even now, he can smell the rich tang of the body rising up, his mouth half-open like a snake's to savour it.

"Is that what you want to ask me with your cock out, mon cher?" Lestat laughs, flicking his eyes up to meet Louis', sparkling and unoffended. He gives the lightest of pinches to the soft skin of Louis' inner thigh, all pads of the fingers, no nails.

He doesn't wait for an answer. His head dips, his lips closing around Louis in a hot, dripping suck, purposefully skirting the edge of too much intensity, too quickly, before he relents in the pressure.

Lestat is a superb lover. He knows this with the confidence a first chair violinist approaches their instrument, his proof found in the acclaim of his many audiences over the years. Louis is his most cherished and intimately rehearsed composition, and he takes to this performance with the joyful relief of returning to a beloved piece after too long in silence.

It's different from the cabin in every way. He'll leave no doubt of that. This is love, not resentment, and he wills it through every worshipful lave of his tongue.

He's too caught up in Lestat's eyes to be caught up in his own hypocrisy. His thigh twitches, but it's nothing compared to what's next. He gasps a small surprised ah! as his head falls back. One hand abandons Lestat's hair and clutches at the headboard.

He loses himself. He drifts on a sea of scintillating fire not unlike the taste of Lestat's blood. Louis's eyes, very bright and unclouded with having not fed, open and plead with the ceiling as if it will rain down what he hungers for. In the cabin, they had poison on their lips and desire in their lions. Lestat said all love is a prison. Tonight, Lestat may well have pinned Louis to the bed like a rare glittering specimen.

"...Fleetin' happiness. I'll savor it 'till you tire of me."

Soft as velvet, ravenous as a wolf, deft as only Lestat can be, knowing Louis as he does. If Lestat's charms flag against Louis's bastion of bitterness, they have hope of succeeding by virtue of the years they have spent twined together like overgrown roots. Louis's eyes close. His nails rake gently across Lestat's scalp.

"I want you... to swallow every drop..." He forgets to phrase it as an order as Lestat's dealer of wholesome discipline ought to.

Lestat laughs around the slick length in his mouth, redoubling his efforts thereafter. One palm braces on the bed with almost business-like practicality, while the other roves across thigh and pelvis and fluttering stomach, skimming and pressing by turns.

I never tire of this, comes the thought, teasing as the flit of his tongue across sensitive, throbbing vein. But I might tire you, mon cher - down to that last drop.

He has sucked the very life from a paramour or two. He won't here, of course, but the thought lend a certain spice to their congress. He does want Louis wrung dry, exhausted, boneless in a tangle of blankets, barely more animate than a doll Lestat might cradle indulgently in the wake of this. It takes quite a lot to reduce a vampire to such a state. It may not be so difficult now.

His throat works as he dives low, muscles spasming because he allows them to, his pace quickening as Louis' nails spur him on. There's a burn to it there usually isn't, in his throat and across the span of his back, but that's a trifle compared to the coiling heat in his belly.

His flesh squeezes and rises subtly to met where Lestat's hand wills. He resists the urge to buck his hips. The deferred movement arches through the rest of him instead, spreading like blood in water. Louis works himself into a flurry even as he is worked. The softness of Lestat's throat and the glitter of his laughter pulses so gently against his sensitive head. And of course Lestat must speak to him, so easily from his mind now instead of negotiating around tongue and length. His voice echoes in concert with the pounding of his heart.

He turns his head, burying his face into his bicep, but his fangs prick his skin hungrily. He faces the ceiling again with a shaky "Fuck!" as he wills himself not to bite. A fine sweat coats him now and shines bright against his skin.

His unwillingness to give in so easily is his undoing. His nails, so strong and sharp, score into the headboard, heedless of the small pricks of wood they collect. His other hand leaves the fall of Lestat's hair and covers his hand.

"Mon cher," he gasps between breaths in a telltale plaintive pitch Lestat has coaxed from him many times. That is the only warning he can muster before the implosion and the hot spill. He clutches Lestat's hand as if he will fly away otherwise.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(no subject)

Re: cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

Re: cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

Re: cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

Re: cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

Re: cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

Re: cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw

cw: nsfw, minor nail injury