and our hands, the color of a savage harvest

Unsure if I'll be able to get it back at this point. Stay tuned and block the account if you have to in the meantime. They got into a few other platforms so I'll be on cleanup duty for a while. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO MESSAGED ME!!

The blood is all consuming, all encompassing. The rest of the world simply fades to background noise, as if it has suddenly become empty of music or color and the only thing with meaning, the only thing letting him know he is alive, is the blood in his mouth. From Armand's arm passed soft lips, a tongue lapping at the would, drinking of him the way a babe might drink of their mother, nurturing and sustaining. It the first decent meal he's had in a while and it is rich and potent and seductive.

His body reacts as much as his mind does - goosebumps and a shiver without the cold, warmth pooling low in his belly, as everything that ever was passes between them. The sharing of blood is both intimate and sexual to Lestat and always has been. Nothing has changed in their time apart. Armand is touching him, his hair mostly, and he can feel every place they connect, each individual strand of gold against the elder's skin.

He is speaking and Lestat slows, but he doesn't pull off, not right away, eyes shut. He does, however, moan against his skin, and it vibrates through him into Armand and then finally, he unlatches his mouth. Violet blue eyes flicker to Armand's, and Lestat bites his own thumb and closes Armand's wound, leaving behind only smears of blood. Once, Lestat would have licked them clean. His cheeks are flushed, his skin warmed.

The color has returned some, and he looks more human than he has in a long while. He licks his teeth, realizes he is still holding onto Armand's wrist, and he let him go, chasing the taste of him with his tongue. "I didn't mean to," he replies, voice husky. He turns into the hand in his hair, like a cat might turn into being pet, eyes closing for a moment as he seems to come down from the swoon of feeding, the effects of the blood.

He is dizzy with it still. Perhaps he should be embarrassed, but he isn't. Armand is inside him, outside of him, touching him, and for a brief moment the unending agony of loss, the indefinite disquiet of being alone is gone. For a moment, he's not thinking about Louis nor the years spent without him nor the masochistic hope he harbors that he'll come back.

Armand can feel the way that the hunger ebbs, the way the air shifts as Lestat releases his arm properly after the feeding. The warmth of the exchange still thrums beneath his flesh, tingling and alive despite the loss, resembling a resonant echo that lingers long after the sound has faded. A chord, strummed in intimate ecstasy, still vibrating in the air around them.

His fingers remain threaded lightly in the younger immortal's blonde curls, feeling the way the scalp warms with heat and the faint tremor that dizzies Lestat after the feeding. It's familiar. It's dangerous. And, to Armand's dismay, it's comforting.

For a long moment he says nothing, merely studies the other's features with an attention that borders between reverence and machination, watching the way the blood softens the sharpness in his eyes, the way it restores color to his cheeks that had minutes before been hollowed by neglect. Armand has seen him like this before in another century after older wounds, and he always finds it beautiful the way Lestat seems to find himself ruined in precisely the same ways.

His thumbpad brushes almost unconsciously along Lestat's temple, a ghost of a touch that might have been affection in another life.

"You have never done anything by accident, Lestat de Lioncourt," he murmurs, not unkindly. "You know Louis cannot hear your pain and yet you are loud with grief and careless with yourself, with your thoughts…" A slight pause where his hand gently falls away from Lestat, from the contact between them that had been decades in the making.

"If not someone who might ease that suffering, I wonder, who else might you have expected? Who else might you have hoped for?"

The gentle rub of soft skin against the inside of his wrist sends a shiver down Daniel's spine. It's the openness and intimacy of this act that finally makes him feel brave enough to reach over with his other hand to place it on top of the one Armand has upon his wrist. Not attempting to pull it off, simply placing it there. It's odd, the lack of heat coming from the other man. Yet he feels warmth of another kind- the flush from himself at allowing himself such physical contact, to be so bold.

I don't think I'm capable of keeping you out Daniel admits, without speaking. He doesn't mean that he doesn't possess the abiility to keep Armand out of his mind. No, rather that he has been so drawn into Armand’s orbit that he has no strength of will to do anything but welcome him in. Into his thoughts. Into his space. Into whatever part of Daniel this creature wished.

“So…the plays. The blood. It’s…real?” A part of him doesn’t want to know. To remain blissfully ignorant to the truth before him. But he’d come here wanting to know the theater, its troupe, its Director. Facing the overwhelming reality that he’d stepped foot into another world entirely was essential to true understanding.

Oh, how beautiful it is when the fragile architecture of the mortal's mind doesn't shatter beneath the weight of wonder and impossibility but settles there like a puzzle piece clicking neatly into place. That is what seals it. The acceptance doesn't come with denial nor hysteria, nor the frantic bargaining that the immortal has learned to expect, nor the scrambling backward from the abyss and looking for the nearest exit. Instead the acceptance comes with a sharpened curiosity, something bright and dangerous and excited.

Armand can feel it bloom immediately, a quickening that makes his own suppressed hunger for blood and the touch of flesh stir more sharply than it has in decades. Perhaps longer. He longs for possession in its truest sense, to keep and to shape, to witness what this beautiful boy might become if allowed to burn eternally.

The immortal draws in a hitched breath at the thought, not because he requires it but because in this moment he is the closest he has come in centuries to losing control. The lack of heat between them is undeniable now but the intimacy warms him as if his blood might run hot within his immortal veins. Armand's amber gaze drops to where their hands meet before rising intentionally slowly, the chill of his skin contrasting exquisitely with the boy's warmth and he does not pull away. Instead he shifts closer, closer still, until his body is nearly flush with Daniel's own.

'Yes,' Armand confirms softly without speaking, the words trickling into Daniel's mind like warm water for only the mortal to hear. 'It is real.'

He feels the coven's attention prickling sharply like needles along his spine as their Maître steps dangerously close to shattering the principals of the Great Laws. And still he leans in and turns his head so that his mouth hovers just beside the mortal's ear, so that as he speaks his breath glides over the heated skin and feather-light whispers of his lips brush against the shell of Daniel's ear.

"You are still here because I find no hysteria in your mind, nor a desire to expose us." He murmurs, eyes fluttering closed briefly as he speaks into Daniel's ear. "I only see longing, and patience. And a mind already willing to accept the impossible. To accept me." His voice is pitched low, lower than any human register could withstand. "If you wish to know this world you must ask the proper questions, but remember Monsieur Molloy... the truth has consequences."

The green of William's eyes gleam in a way that, had Daniel not been on a mission, would have had him weak at the knees. That intense gaze coupled with the casual flirtation, the way he referred to Daniel as 'cher', called him cute...Daniel wasn't immune to flattery, and William had a magnetism about him that would be so very easy to become lost in. Rare was a guy who could make Daniel truly interested in a way that wasn’t purely transactional. But there was something about this stranger… But Daniel was on a mission, and he refused to get distracted so easily.

There it was again. That little bell inside his brain- though this time it was more like an annoying fly, buzzing around, but never landing. A girl. A girl? Yes- no. He didn't know about any girl. Did he? Daniel tried to concentrate, tried to rack his brain for any concrete memories. But it was like sand slipping through his fingers- the more he tried to grasp onto it, the quicker it fell away. Until he was left wondering why it had sounded familiar to him at all.

Shaking his head, Daniel tried to refocus. He hated feeling like this. Like he was missing something incredibly important. Sure, he'd lost time before, after getting high. But this...this felt different. In the midst of his confusion, one other detail had stuck out to Daniel about the story William had told him. "His...significant other? Wouldn't that have been his wife?" It was such an odd way to refer to a man's wife that he couldn't help but catch it. The emphasis his guide had put on the words couldn't have been coincidence. A queer man with power and wealth in New Orleans in 1917? It sounded impossible.

"And he just left the buildings here to fall into ruin, to deteroiate into...this mess?' Daniel continued to question, gaze shifting as he took in the block of rowhomes once more. In a city such as this, why would this Lestat choose to not have anything restored? There would have been enormous profit in it, if the area had ever been fixed up. It didn't make any sense.

William can feel the fissure this time, the reverberations that sound as a horsefly to the youthful mortal's senses but to his own it filters through in fragmented words. Sentences all out of order and rearranged, half syllables here and broken vowels there. A proverbial beehive of articulations. 'My daughter was my sister.' The only things that he could properly translate from the cacophony of sound reverberating around inside of Daniel's mind before the familiarity slipped away leaving only confusion and the memory of bees buzzing.

William would find himself genuinely impressed with the memory manipulations if he weren't as equally interested in gently prying those fissures open to see what lay beneath. Especially with the way the pretty mortal says the word 'wife', as if it should be the more obvious term to use because how can William possibly have meant anything else. It causes William's gaze to flicker downward briefly and his feet to bring him closer.

So close, in fact, that they would be touching if he merely shifted the positioning of his arm. He doesn't, not yet. He doesn't want to frighten the mortal away this soon, not before he's had the chance to delve a bit more deeply into that beautiful mind and not before his teeth have had the chance to sink into that beautiful scar... He can feel his fangs aching, threatening to descend with every moment that passes between them and he knows that the intelligent thing to do would be to end this now. It would be to excuse himself and go drain the nearest criminal he can find in the Quarter, but instead he stays right where he is. Tempted and longing and ravenous for the thick, hot liquid that is currently pulsing through Daniel Molloy's veins.

A smile appears instead, and a sound of amusement escapes between his parted lips as Daniel continues on with his assessment of the information William has given him, feeling something close to immense delight at the audacious judgement in the mortal's gaze as it shifts around them to the burnt, hollowed out husks of the homes.

"I meant what I said, cher," he reiterates, "Monsieur de Lioncourt never had a wife. He did, however, have a male companion that for legal purposes is listed as a secondary owner and business partner. He also had endless pockets and plenty of influence in the Quarter." He says, knowing very well that a queer man in a place of power with immense wealth in 1917 was entirely possible, should the aforementioned queer man possess the mind gifts given by the Blood. Or know his ways around witchcraft... Or perhaps had acquired some very good blackmail.

"Their daughter, the orphan, is rumored to have died in Paris in 1950, but again... hearsay." He continues, and though the information is lacking quite a few details it's entirely genuine all the same. "After that the homes here were left as a memorial to her, I suppose. The deeds to the properties changed to specify that they must remain as they are. No rebuilds, no sales... It was around 1965 that another contract was drawn up for the properties here and on Rue Royale, same as the last, the signature slightly different despite the name never changing. Lestat de Lioncourt."

Lestat cannot deny the warmth that blossoms in his chest upon her request. This is something she asks only of him, not Louis. In this particular instruction, he is the one true teacher, and it has proven good for their relationship. Together, they bond over the hunger that defines their nature, the otherness of their immortal existence, the way they transcend humanity and it's rules. Hunting is both sport and necessity, and unlike Louis, Claudia enjoys it.

She is a pouncing lion cub, all teeth and claws, proud and encouraged by his presence. Lover's Lane or the park or a back alley in the Quarter, there is no shortage of places to find a meal and she comes to him for it. It is something between them, something special. He cannot read her mind, nor can she read his, but in this they are in agreement. He raises an eyebrow and smiles, just barely, at her words.

She looks small in the armchair.

She is small.

It doesn't matter. "Would you like that?" He reaches out and pushes a strand of hair from her face, before his grey and violet gaze falls back on hers. He smiles properly. "Go tell Daddy Lou that we're going out. And get your coat."

When Uncle Les reaches out and brushes a wayward curl from her forehead to tuck it behind her ear, she feels that strange squeezing sensation deep in her chest. It's the same kind of sensation she had whenever her mortal auntie had been particularly loving or attentive, and when she feels it now she can't help but lean into it just a little bit. Not enough that it might be embarrassing but enough that she's sure he notices whether he speaks on it or not.

His smile is reflected on her face, sitting wide and brightly animated and despite how strikingly different they look from one another, in this moment she does resemble him. Her Uncle Les. The one who taught her how to hunt properly, for humans and all. Not just the rats and cats and fish that Daddy Lou loves so much that she herself can't truly stomach. She supposes it tastes just fine, the animal blood, but there's something lacking in it. Almost like it's not quite enough to keep their kind going, not like the human blood can do. Human blood makes her feel dizzy and powerful and alive! No silly alleycat is ever gonna compare to that.

The moment he agrees she lets out a soft squeak of excitement and claps her hands together twice, slipping off of the chair and bouncing in place, making her dark curls dance around her face. Then she's encircling his waist with her arms, hugging him as tight as she can manage and burrowing her face against his shirtcloth. Just as a child would do to a parent.

"I'll go tell 'im now!" She says enthusiastically, already withdrawing from the hug and headed toward the staircase with that preternatural speed she inherited from her Maker. "Daddy Lou! Uncle Les is takin' me huntin'!" She calls out as she goes, though she still seeks him out to tell him face to face. It doesn't take her very long to get her coat and slip on her shoes after that, fastening the buttons of the coat right around the time she rejoins Uncle Les downstairs.

"Ready!" She announces as she comes to a stop in front of him, pulling on a pair of gloves so that her fingernails aren't quite as noticeable. Generally speaking it's the first thing people notice when they notice something's different about her, besides her eyes. "Where are we goin' first, Uncle Les? The park? Riverside? The Quarter?"

The anger fills her and it is almost overwhelming. He still treats her like she's a goddamn child and she hates it. It's not her fault she's stuck eternally in a child's body, does he have to treat her like one too?!

Nevermind that she is very much acting like one with the way she lets out a frustrated 'ugh!' and stomps her foot at him. "Fuck you, Uncle Les!" She spits out with venom lacing her tone as she turns to the body with a scowl.

She could ask Louis to help her and he would but she doesn't want to bother him so she huffs and kneels down to grab the dead body by his ankles and drag him towards the incinerator.

"Comme j'ai dit, t'es vraiment pas mon genre!" He calls from the hallway in response to the venom spilling from his prodigal daughter's lips, the tone carrying casual boredom with the hint of a smirk. The expression drops immediately, however, as he makes his way through the hall to stand in the alcove at the far end of the manor that faces the courtyard.

He trusts his prodigal daughter to dispose of the corpse, he wishes her to suffer this punishment of disposal, but likewise if she genuinely struggles with it due to her stature he will step in and assist. He will never allow another teachable moment to pass without mentioning it, of course, but still he will assist if necessary because she is of his Blood. If she needs him, loathe as he is to admit it, he will be there without hesitation.

As the sounds of Claudia ridding the home of the rotting corpse begin filling the halls he listens closely, hearing each and every time the corpse's skull slaps against the stairwell, the sound making him wince. It will take more chemicals than he cares to subject his senses to in order to in order to get the remnants of blood and flesh off of the wooden floorboards.

His expression shifts into a small, almost affectionate smile as he sees Claudia appear in the courtyard below, watching her through the window as she goes through the process of getting the corpse into the incinerator. It takes time and he sees how frustrated it makes her, but he remains where he is. Watching. And when he sees her seem to sense his presence above and glance upward that smile grows a bit, and he nods just so, letting her know that he is pleased.

Then he turns from the window and makes his way back into the heart of the home, stopping when he comes to Claudia's bedroom door. His wintry gaze scans he expanse, nostrils flaring, senses unfurling as he attempts to discern whether or not she has kept anything else she was meant to dispose of. He sees nothing but the scent of death lingers heavily here, and he knows there is a likelihood she has something else tucked away somewhere he cannot readily see.

@taleswritten

cw: gore, violence, usfw.