page 227.

well did she make you cry? make you break down?

SHATTER YOUR ILLUSIONS OF LOVE?

( it is not first time a man SQUIRMS beneath cooled touch - nor will it be the last. key difference in setting, in willingness to RESTRAIN against wonderfully human whimpers, salt of sweat, BLOOD pooling against stone. utterly foreign to not be the cause of such DISTRESS, to not be relishing handiwork, to not SHIVER with pleasure as victim bleats their last. foreign, but not unwelcome - especially not when mortal is as continually FASCINATING as mr. anatole. )

( he whose reach eclipsed her own, whose mortal mysteries were only SURPASSED by inconceivable ability to reach into mind &. peruse long stretches of gory MEMORY. to know her as none before had, not even beloved sisters or cruel husband; even dragon's daughter capable of WANTON destruction &. soaring heights of desire both could not peer into thoughts. &. now - noted with curious tilt of head - does bride recognize no small amount of STEEL in him, even in his own nervous way. boldness to reach across unspoken years of EMPTINESS between them both recognized &. not - it is why dark brows draw together with subsequent RAMBLING, gaze &. inflection softly chastising. )

' why do you apologize for knowing what you desire - &. taking it? '

( a trait predator &. prey seem to share. though perhaps not now, not tonight, not with him; to take all hesperid CRAVED would be to rip boy asunder, for tongue to know every INCH of warm skin &. fangs to render soft tissue apart. all in HEATED pursuit of enlightenment, of want to CONSUME dove for herself. scent of him maddening, ENIGMA of him ever more so. )

( pale, thin fingers reach to grasp at his chin, careful now to utilize GENTLENESS in touch. starless gaze settles on torn lip &. needs within - lust for viscera &. skin - are so KEEN it is near a physical, uncontrollable pull in gut. masterfully guised beneath VENEER of sheepish grin despite cacophony of thought. MELODIOUS laughter does not mock but is, remarkably, chagrined in tone. )

' i always forget human fragility ... for so long i lay with a beast, you see, not a man. '

( it is vampyr's turn to close distance. done with equal PATIENCE, softness as with touch, CLAWED fingertip so carefully resting on his lower lip. bride cannot remember when touch had last been so tender. arched nose knocks into his - constantly surrounded by SPRING of his smell nosferatu can fool herself into imagining she is adjusting even as digits tremble. rueful laughter again even as hues remain TRANSFIXED on brilliant ruby welling on his lip. )

' such a little thing! &. easily remedied ... so let me in. '

Guy is still covering his mouth when she closes in, breath stalling at the top of his lungs, reflexively leaning away from a touch that finds him anyway, delicate as a petal this time. His hand slowly lowers, reaching for purchase on the back of a wobbly chair beside him. A streak of blood dries on his chin, ceases trickling into his mouth, though the wound still stings under the press of her nail and he flinches– hardly a man, he wants to say, and to make some very inappropriate joke about her being with a beast. Frankly, he feels only a little more than a boy, still finding his feet, trying to make rent. Can't say any of that in a moment like this; even he knows how to be silent when his life depends on it.

His heart drums at a worrying tempo, gaze drifting down the vampire's Hellenic features, contemplating the call of the abyss that her mouth brings. Teeth stained with him; elegant lips parted, red, red, red. His free hand locates her waist, hesitantly hooking her in. He wants this. He doesn't want this. The earlier encounter with Jasper's revenants threw his compass for a spin, he was no longer interested in what fear had to say.

Maybe just enough. Just enough for both of them.

( he's cute. cute when usual pick of SACRIFICE are virile brutes; when corded muscle, hissed curses, hot breath mean NOTHING against snapping teeth. if strigoi wrestles BEASTS by night then newfound companion is doe-eyed INNOCENT of palpable sweetness. selfishly boy's BEAUTY is coveted by bride, finding sport watching TREMBLE of his lip &. tension in his brow. PATISSERIE on golden plate, honey-sweet dessert presented before being STARVED of saccharinity for centuries. )

( melodious chuckles lift in midnight air with heady smoke. PREDATOR with prey in narrowed sights, bait taken in warm fingers bride is tempted to BITE. cigarette case tucked away &. lighter - amber flame still sputtering - is offered with BEGUILING grin. he must lean in close to capture fire &. julia RELISHES in opportunity, nostrils of acquiline nose flaring to better SAVOR scent. animal within cannot be helped - mouth parts just so to TASTE his air, though still careful not to reveal four glinting points within not yet!. thirst burns with ignited FEROCITY, pacing wolf barely disguised beneath sheepswool. )

' quiet. i seem to have more in common with the dead than the living these days. '

( said with amused SILVERY tones, leaning back as cigarette is lit - cannot help but to spell his DOOM. scent of ebony curls still lingers in sparse space between; though overwhelmingly clove, base notes of petrichor &. coppery musk ENVELOP to lull, to seduce. preternatural beauty is CELESTIAL in pooling moonlight yet mortal seems to dare not to look as if knowing single glance may ANNIHILATE. unpredictable temperament SMOLDERS with familiar rage - look at me. LOOK AT ME. )

' &. you, my new friend? do you also seek solace amongst the dead? perhaps from the hordes of women who stalk you, hmm? '

She's planning to kill him.

<<< LOOK AT ME. >>>

Startled, celestite eyes flicker up to hers, cigarette hanging on unresponsive lips, stuck to his skin. He tries to come up for air, shuffle back, and ends up following the path her spidery fingers slice through the air to brush ever so gingerly over his jacket. Guy falters, becoming all too aware that the more he thrashes the more her web will stick to him and what would be just another insomniac walk after hours could very well end up with him drained and dead.

She's still talking, distracting, entertaining him, spinning her charm like a lethal weapon. He fills his lungs with anodyne smoke, as if she meant to make him soft, pliant, as if somehow he wasn't worthy of the same end she gave to others who tried to fight her off.

"I couldn't sleep." He gives her a rueful smile, faint, fading quickly. He doesn't realistically think he can stop her if she tries to attack him, but perhaps he can keep... talking. "London's very loud, especially on a Friday night." His pacing discreetly buys him a little extra distance, the gelid night air smarting his cheeks, helping him to focus. From the corner of his eye he observes her, this nightshade that blooms in his path, inviting him in. He lifts an accusing finger, though his tone attempts to remain curious, non-confrontrational.

Unlike her first meals on Earth however, the innocence of this one lay in scripts written more deeply than the skin of his body. Like gathering daisies and hyacinths sprung from the same mortal garden, she can practically breathe in his youth and melancholy— richer notes lay beneath the clumsy quaver of his syllables, a touch of something tainted with a darker body. A foundational hurt, nestled within the pit of his heart. Innocent, but not naive. Her smile is all teeth.

"I would want nothing more, James." Belle coos as she scratches her talon-like nail beneath the boy's jaw, much like one would a cherished kitten. She withdraws from him, dragging her svelte fingers up and over his breastbone before clamping her palms upon his sloping shoulders, indicating her intention to temporarily adopt this wayward creature to her darling Maxime.

The latter indicates an open palm to her, a wordless Je vous en prie in gesture before the barman turns his attention to a gaggle of women approaching the bar for refreshment. Belle languidly lifts one hand from James' shoulder, using the other to grip both his opposing shoulder as well as a fistful of his top and readily hoisting him from his stool so that she may place his feet upon the ground next to her in preparation for his tour of this less than holy place.

"Come." She commands with effortless authority, nodding her head to one side in indication for him to follow before striding forthright in that direction. Her long plait sways in sync with the shift of her hips, the sheen of her form-hugging clothes glistening brightly beneath the pulsing lights as they thus venture— she weaves through the thickening crowd as seamlessly as water poured through a crack in stone, expecting her quarry to keep dutifully to her heels lest he be swept away in the storm.

"All who come to Eden seek an escape. From life, from misery, hardship and desolation." Her voice calls above the din of the music pounding within the cages of every undulating chest stood before the towering fountain, Belle whips her head around and sees her pet subsumed within a wave of frenzied bodies, promptly reaching her hand out to grab him by that pale wrist and tug him forwards in the manner of rope thrown to a survivor on the open sea.

"The fountain offers salvation. Blood of the Gods, ichor of ecstasy— many would rather drown in dreams than face another day." As they emerge from that crowd into a quieter area lined with walled booths offering customers a veil of privacy for their engagements, Belle releases the boy's wrist and uses that same hand to rather gesture to these curtained enclosures in meaningful demonstration.

"Others, prefer more tangible comforts offered by the flesh."

Reflexively, Guy begins to pull away from her hand when both her palms land on him to root him in place, then haul him out of his seat with all the grace of a mouse being scooped by its scruff, whisked away to be someone's dinner. The stool squeaks and groans as he stumbles helplessly away, leaving his drink and Maxime behind without the chance to say goodbye. He assumes someone would chase him to pay for his tab before he leaves, but he also has other immediate concerns.

Namely, how Belle parts the crowd's waters like a prophet which then instantly close in on him, forcing him into their wavering sway. There are more hands and bodies on him he can comfortably navigate, only just slightly buzzed, neck stretching in frantic search for that anchoring sillouette– his mistresses's hook fishes him out of the depths and he reemerges trying to sort his clothes and dignity.

Blood of the Gods. They sure sell whatever punch they got flowing in that fountain, huh? But all this talk about the mystery drink and its status as a panacea for all ails and sorrows further convinces him that there's something going on with it – quick guess would be drugs, mainly hallucinogens, but could be something else entirely, not usually available to his kind. Still a reach on the vampire blood but he ought to get that sample anyway.

Guy fixes his face as they come out of the dance floor, remembering to add some wide-eyed curiosity to his innate skittishness. He tries to hear over the music, line of sight automatically shifting along the row of curtains, seeking any glimpses of others guests visible through the gaps. "People come here to fuck?" A question that sounds more like a statement, as well as means of gauging what Belle thought he might be looking for. He spots an empty booth and makes absolutely no move towards it. No way, ma'am, take no offence, the thought of people boning two feet away from him is still weirding him out despite his every effort to contain it.

Well, what the fuck did he expect.

( he had come in typical INELEGANCE for - of all things - her aid. perhaps boy knew in his strange way vampyr found him too AMUSING to kill outright, even though very scent of him was enough to DISTRACT. or somehow he knew a truth julia had yet to name - EMBERS kindled within centuries-hardened heart. even if born of sheer FASCINATION of his mortal mysteries or simmering BLOODLUST for taste strigoi could not forget finding in him capacity for FEELING, though knife's edge between empathy &. HUNGER continued to blur. it is why when he stumbled - frightened &. bloodied - door opened to him in SILENT welcome. )

( warbride has seen more of battlefield wounds than any MORTAL physician &. could still stitch even after half a millennia, even after own injuries never necessitated such CRUDE medicine again. experience can be seen in tension between drawn brows, firm line of CRIMSON lips; with enough strength slender digits could crush his bones but they instead SUTURED with feather-light touch. occasionally aquiline visage grimaces - sweet scent so PALPABLE it surrounds in thick, inescapable fog. )

( it happens when onyx hues shift to meet gaze, pupils flashing RUBY with every iota caging beast against unavoidable AROMA of doe. full lips part to speak, INTERRUPTED by prey closing short distance between; warm lips ENVELOP those of cool marble with sudden passion &. predator is swiftly UNCAGED. )

( taste of his lips is where bride finds tantalizing preview of what she had been CHASING - life. DULCET warmth, greenery of youth, very pulse of him so keenly felt against her lips; sunlight, cigarette smoke, honey-sweet VITALITY flavors nosferatu had almost forgotten entirely. nevermind instant CRAVING for touch julia had not felt in so many decades, quiet moan in back of throat revealing HUNGER far better than any carefully-worded machinations. )

( for once it is vampyr's turn to be graceless. pale hands which had removed themselves moment lips CRASHED to hers suddenly reach with PRETERNATURAL speed, winding possessively into boyish curls &. pushing them against surface behind him table, she thinks. returned FERVOR carries with it intensity for his blood, his sunlight, fangs SLICING into thin skin of his lips before bride can remember to RESTRAIN animal. pulling away with unearthly HISS, great teeth stained vermillion gnashing, before human veneer returns with PURRING murmur &. crooked grin. )

He's all edges as she works on him, dining table turned butcher's block. Wired, fidgeting, the instinct to survive giving way to other, more perilous impulses now that he's made it to 'safety'. Guy tries to sit still under her suturing needle, weaving so delicately into the torn skin of his shoulder, tries to say out of her mind as his blood and sweat stain her immaculate flat, her sanctuary– Jesus, he has no right to be here. He's too alive to be here.

The problem is she feels the same.

The problem is he reads her without filters, without pretence. All the faces of her hunger; that profound loneliness he can only relate to for twenty something years, let alone her centuries of existing on the sidelines, in the shadow. Self-sufficiency to an extreme, designed to exist... alone.

Oh and to be wanted. To be sacrifice.

He moves irrationally, something between intense sorrow and lust, in a way he instantly regrets. Rash, stupid fucking fool, trespassing her generosity for a taste of supple, ferrous lips, just to see what she'd do– why, boy, why the death wish all of a sudden? And he doesn't snap out of it until his mouth is bleeding, throbbing and torn, shocked into sobriety. Guy instinctively brings his hand to his lips, wincing, unsure if he can stomach the taste of his own fear. He's punished, alright, he learns his lesson, and then forgets it quickly (the ghost of her fingers seizing his hair, the electrical clash of bodies that yield to the inevitable...).

Lifting his gaze, he leans as though to reclaim some distance, though terror roots him; she regards him as a feral beast, he is not worthy of being her sustenance.

There is hope to that end when he sees that head of curls linger on the crowds gathered before the fountain, watching the sultry beat of contemporary music move through their bodies in improvised rhythm. Clearly he is thinking, perhaps a little too much? Certainly for a venue such as this, where contemplation bent the knee to other, more material forms of indulgence. As if on cue, he raises his head and allows a wolf-like grin to spread across his finely groomed features— recognition for a familiar face emerging from that clustered din of revelry.

"You ask how it is you should seek, when you should let what is here find you." As though to redirect his young friend's attention, he briefly pushes both eyebrows upwards before dipping his head to indicate their oncoming company.

She is, as ever, utterly divine. A towering woman of dark complexion sculpted in a seductive river of vase-like shape language, strong shoulders easing into a firm waist before curving once more into voluptuous thighs— about which a long, single plait of obsidian hair dangled whip-like with bejeweled ornamentation. She complements this stunning figure with a latex bandeau bodysuit held firmly to her skin by harness elements, blazing eyes roaming over the new face at the bar with the hunger of a spider mother.

Thus does their Jezebel descend upon this offering of fresh meat, her sharpened, claw-like nails scraping down the newcomer's chest with playful intrusion as she drapes herself over his seated figure from behind; closing herself in around him.

"Alors Maxime. Who is this little sweet dove? He should be careful in a place like this, someone might wish to eat him up."

Thoroughly invested in the electric, threatening energy Jezebel has once again brought to his bar, Maxime throws a white hand towel over his waistcoat-adorned shoulder and leans his broad arms upon the counter with a conspiratorial smile.

"'Says he's looking for something here, Belle. Very specific."

The night mistress feigns a gasp of invested surprise from right next to the boy's ear, revealing a pearly set of fanged teeth. Her predatory smile soon however returns with a honeyed ease as she resumes dragging her obsidian talon of a nail across the ribbed cotton of the boy's shirt. Theatrics over, it is clear that she is now turning this information over in her head with pensive consideration.

Maxime looks pleased, 'Belle' already speaks of making a meal out of him.

Not a bad way to go, probably, judging by how those claws cause a ripple through weak flesh, and the glimmer of sharp teeth (fake? or another one of them?) has him recently more curious than afraid. Guy brusquely blinks these thoughts away and attempts to fix the stoop of his spine, though he remains frankly too intimidated to look the woman in the eye or touch anything than his whiskey glass. The bartender leans in, sandwich complete. Guy doesn't know where to keep his eyes anymore.

Such were the observations of Maxime Lefebvre, who called this den of reckless hedonism his place of employment. He had taken up the role of tending this bar a few years ago, before the millennium celebration and so in time to have watched some of the more popular trappings of that grand fete stick around long-term. The 'message in a bottle' method of finding partners for activities of interest, the nightly coveted Loved One's Throne— a guest chosen by lottery who could seat themselves blindfolded and find themselves subject to all manner of intimate yet entirely public adoration. Such a place fueled itself upon a joint sickness that in turn required a shared fever, and tending this bar one could tell when one was not seeking to succumb as such.

The fresh face seated before him is a mouse ordering a man's drink, groomed by another beyond the boy himself he is almost certain; he carries not the confidence of his clothing, rushes into his booze as a virgin would clumsily handle his lover for fear of underperforming otherwise. Maxime smiles to himself through his close-shaved beard as he wipes a glass, humored by this lost lamb presenting itself so opaquely for this world of darker joys to see. As that almost inevitable question comes his way, he lifts his strong jawline and swings his gaze out towards the glamorous centre piece to the vast room— his lusciously swept black hair swaying with the motion as blades of tall grass might beneath a gentle breeze. Upon the cartilage of his sun-bronzed left ear shines a single, argentine hoop of ornamentation.

"You are new in town, my friend. Most in Paris know of Eden's wine— she is a famed and much loved vintage." Having lived in the city his whole life, Maxime had heard much of the club's vaunted exclusivities long before he had become an employee here. Such might have driven away more wary or cautious barkeepers, but not he. He minded not that there had been strange hoops to jump through at first: a memory test and some sort of non-disclosure agreement he hadn't read through too closely. The pay was better than anywhere else, and the atmosphere? Sublime. He was beginning to grey while tending this bar, and he couldn't imagine himself wanting to anywhere else.

"If you are curious, you should take a sip no? It is free of charge."

"Guilty as charged. First time in Paris." He points out, forefinger lifting from his glass, flashing another friendly (if slightly self-deprecating) smile. "Ah, no, thanks. Maybe later." He's not here to drink anyway. And the fountain is, seeing it in action now, probably a dead-end. Wouldn't blood also coagulate and go all weird? Maybe not vampire blood. Damn it, he really wished the organisation wasn't in the habit of redacting every single internal document to iotas. Guess he'll try and get that sample at some point.

He passes a cursory glance over the crowd, head helplessly bobbing to a familiar tune; the way these places are contagious, and the oblivion of dance calls. Ought to mingle, but still had some questions for the brunet.

he takes notice of the way the shade of the boy's face changes, and his eyes do dart between him and the waitress. had he missed something? a lingering gaze? a brush of fingers? it did not matter, in paris, love always found a way of fitting itself into the strangest little crevices. the corners of marcel's lips curled as he watched guy struggle to regain his composure. perhaps it was this sheepishness of his that made him seem so young in helen's eyes. the agent took a sip of his black coffee. he wondered just how gullible his guest was. how difficult would it be to find out where he was staying. how easily his long pale fingers would sink into guy's swampy subconscious and scrape at all of his dreams...would it feel like slipping into a warm bath? would it be dirty? would it hurt him? his eyes shifted across the boy's face.

did guy cry much?

marcel arched his brow at the sudden inquiry. after taking a few seconds to ponder over it, he finally shrugged. "bah, not too much." he confessed. "she told me that you were a precious asset to our organisation but that i was not to inform any of my colleagues of your arrival to paris. that you were on the run, though she wouldn't specify what from," one of his hands gestured towards the empty space on the booth next to the american. "and that you would be visiting paris with a friend." he chuckled. clearly, the briefing had not been the most detailed. but helen had always known how to get his attention.

He says nothing of the matter.

As his companion recounts Helen's phone call, Guy nods along, already volunteering to offer some more context– so much he nearly interrupts to add his notes, but Marcel's concluding comment makes him laugh. Can always count on the French to be frank. Drums, please. "Ah, yeah, she's resting. We're staying at a hotel, but really we need the keys to a safehouse, if you could get us one. Just say you have a... I don't know. An informant staying there or something. Keep it vague." The waitress returns with his breakfast, and this time he doesn't make the mistake of looking her in the eye again. He thanks her, reaches for the glass of OJ, and gulps it greedily while rotating the croissant plate until it's angled in a way that pleases him.

"It's only temporary." He's a bit breathless by the time he's halfway through his juice, setting down the glass. Through his periphery, he glimpses one of the headlines Marcel had been reading on the newspaper – the houseboat, and an entire extended family slaughtered. Maybe drinking so quickly had been a mistake.

THORNE ASTAIRE. car crash of a velvet-clad demon, will charm you out of what you have and don't have. revelation or your money back.

tiefling OC, lifted from d&d and set loose on dash. ind/sel/priv. carrd.

♤ mature themes + incorrigible behaviour ♤ side blog est. 11/2023 + main ♤ puppeteered by marmelo (25+, she/her, gmt+1)

MINORS DNI.

ㅤㅤThere’s distinct cessation of motion as fingertips chance upon the cool sheen of slender metal, the loops of the scissors’ handles almost too narrow for Lestat’s fingers, a small grunt of effort exerted under his breath as they’re slipped through (  un ajustement serré  ).  The consistent mien of displeasure continues, but given the circumstances, there’s no other choice, a final glance to the surface of the table and its boxy containers emphasising as such. Pivoting on the spot, iridescent eyes veer back to the young one, a slight jut of the blond’s thumb resulting in the long sharp blades widening before him  (  pas intentionnellement une menace, mais aussi pas très amical  ).  The impudence of this manchild is as palpable as the rapid echo of his heart, a skittishness seized in a manner that borders on weaponisation with a subsequent manifestation of courage  (  mais ce garçon est certainement loin du Kansas  ),  a languid shift about the vampire’s stance closing the distance a little between them.  “ Oh, I forget that I am speaking with a veritable expert on the subject. It is that  simple. How ignorant of me. ”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤA simulacra of pity edges about expression, the upturned furrow of the brow coupled with a mock-worthy pursing of the lips, an innocence about the pout that had the power to defy a camera and far-flung audience, yet lacked integrity with much to be desired when one-on-one with someone undeserving of such performative earnestness. A relenting huff.  “ To answer your tedious question: non, I do not know  where Armand is. I have not heard from him in some time. ”  The nature of such contact or the length of time is kept to himself - it was a query that Molloy had plagued Lestat with on numerous occasions, the fledgling having utterly given up with the apparent abandonment while throwing himself entirely into the making of the documentary, the blond often observing him with an understanding of that familiar sense of malaise caused by such a rift  (  c’était pitoyable parmi eux  ).  Tranquil imagery of water lapping against gondolas play about his thoughts, an old sanctuary of the elder from a prior lifetime, a location that Lestat had never witnessed firsthand barring the intimacy of it being bestowed during the sharing of blood.

ㅤㅤTemperament sharply fluctuates with the impingement of the Talamasca, Lestat’s anguished line of vision swivelling back to the mirror, a needful forced disinterest enacted as a means of creating a distance from the topic, asserting an inwardly aimed placation. The blades are promptly directed to tresses, several inches hacked away in gradual snips, heavy curls fluttering to the ground to cover the immediate floor around him, the new intended length reminiscent of a style back from the 1930s. Head canting from side-to-side to scrutinise his ongoing handiwork, the grip of the scissors tightens as the man’s voice weaves its way to the vampire’s thoughts, its intrusive nature akin to an overfed fox trying to weasel its way through a small fractured gap in a fence  (  sans grâce et indésirable  ).  The immortal retaliates but it isn’t as harsh as before, not quite the abrupt slamming of a door, but rather a discordant rattling of its doorknob in warning, a begrudging response interwoven with an ached tenderness befitting an old wound.  <<< Do not speak of my family. You do not have the right >>>

"Very well. I believe you." He ponders taking his leave when the hiss and grind of scissors reclaims his attention. He turns to witness Lestat having his very own Britney Spears moment, hacking at tresses of gold hair in an act that feels sacrilegious. Almost too stunned to react, Guy stands uneasily, unsure what to do with his arms. There's a slight but nagging urge to intervene, as if he's worried Lestat will hurt himself, as if it means anything to him.

<<< I am not your enemy. I'm trying to understand. >>>

He doesn't move. He brings his hand to his throat and waits; listens. There is a story wanting to be told there, cameras or not. There is a cry, hoping someone will care. The tide rises again, this time through Lestat first, sweeping Guy in the process. Whatever pain makes it to that harsh, betrayed voice, the human feels it too. What was once a home now a point of interest, a tourist trap. The innards of a life catalogued, exposed, sterilised.

When called to assist, Guy rapidly blinks to composure, though his nose is red even as he wipes it on the sleeve of his jacket. He accepts the shears with a fair bit of hesitance, and looks between the mirror and the seated creature, attempting to figure out what the end goal was. Tentatively, he holds a lock from the back of Lestat's head between the fingers of his left hand, feeling its soft weightlessness, then begins to snip it. "That isn't right." He concludes, offering his sympathy, as useless as it may be. He lets that same strand slip through his fingers, then collects another. Not the turn he thought his day would take.