lestat de lioncourt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flanerie) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2023-12-18 05:42 pm
flanerie) wrote in singillatim2023-12-18 05:42 pm
(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?”
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?”
Re: cw: nsfw
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.
cw: nsfw
(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?"
cw: nsfw
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."
cw: nsfw
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."
Re: cw: nsfw
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?"
cw: nsfw
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.
Re: cw: nsfw
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.
cw: nsfw
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.
cw: nsfw, minor nail injury
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.