the vampire santiago

“ Do not overthink this. What you see here is a self-serving gift as much as it is a sign of my abundant generosity. ” A large case of La Prairie makeup awaits Santiago, bound by a red ribbon. “ Your current makeup, it is tacky. It makes me weep in revulsion. ”

bright green eyes read through the card with lukewarm interest. one dark eyebrow arches at the snarky tone which accompanies this mysterious gift but, nevertheless, santiago does not hesitate to pull at the ribbon which keeps this delivery bound together. his curiosity has always been very much catlike but killing him had become increasingly difficult throughout the years. he is pleasantly surprised by the contents --- but after a few seconds of quiet contemplation, a chuckle vibrates within the actor's chest. oh, the gall of this frenchman, the outrageous nerve of it all...!

his face is painted white, make-up twisting his expression into a perpetual and cruel frown as he walks onto the stage, causing the audience to erupt into applause, pleased to see the actor's familiar face. in this particular play, written to celebrate valentine's day with those of more romantic inclinations, santiago is given the part of the corrupter, the antagonist, the enemy of all lovers who envision a future of many years together; in this play santiago is betrayal incarnate. his three-pieced maroon suit is decorated with dark spirals, responsible for hypnotising the play's innocent lover. his heart is promised to a fair lady who grows carnations in her back garden. betrayal's cruel goal is to persuade the young man to steal the beautiful flowers and offer them to a more voluptuous and experienced maiden ... it wasn't a very good script.

sam had written it during particularly uninspired period of his artistic journey. but it was an interactive play; a perfect excuse for couples celebrating valentine's day to forcibly bond over the discomfort of being made to participate. that coupled with low lights and a degenerate staff created the perfect opportunity to fill up some seats with red-cheeked and throbbing lovers.

the actor places both of his hands on his hips and stomps his foot onto the wooden floor. "flowers, perverse?! because they are satisfied with the only need of life, which is love?" santiago approaches the edge of the stage and gestures towards the crowd, as if they are the carnations sitting amongst a flowerbed. "but consider, my dear fellow, the flower is only a reproductive organ! is there anything healthier, stronger, or more beautiful than that? please, behold them." he glances towards the crowd with his bright feline stare and finds the maître, lingering in the aisle, covered in darkness and perfectly still. any member of the audience might have mistaken him for a pilar or a statue. a stern mimicry of a great cruel leader, with eyes painted too brightly --- his pedestal stolen from him by some lesser being, unworthy of stepping into his temple.

the thesp steps down and off the stage to walk amongst the crowd, looking down at each audience member with a loving gaze, letting his pale hands hover over their heads and brush over their shoulders as he made his way through the seats. "these marvellous petals, these silks, these velvets ... these soft, supple, and caressing materials are the curtains of the alcove! the draperies of the bridal chamber, the perfumed bed where they unite, where they pass their ephemeral and immortal life, swooning with love..." santiago suddenly stops and the spotlight following him does the same.

he swirls to point at the back of the theatre. "ah, there she is!" the actor rushes up the aisle and, the circle of bright white light, suddenly illuminates the vampire armand, standing still and beautiful and perfectly stoic. santiago's pale hands gently grab the other man's face as he leans in to press a close-mouthed kiss to the other's lips. though it was a technical kiss, supposed to be repeated over the next few evenings on random audience members, to mark them as the coven's next prey, santiago's eyes do not shut. the only space in which no part is required to be played is right there, between both of their stares. santiago's is both loving and spiteful in its' own twisted way. the desire to bite down is kept tamed behind thin smirking lips. but it is there --- always. this misplaced want to own, to love, to consume whole...

the actor makes a cartoonishly wet sound as he pulls away, causing the audience to chuckle and giggle. but neither of the vampires laugh. and santiago's thumb brushes over the curve of the maître's cheek so tenderly, one would think he was the romantic lead. from between smirking lips, spills the final line of the actor's monologue.

"knock, knock."

says santiago, standing on the window sill as he waits for his queue. it's a nice little place jasper got for himself up there, in his ivory tower, surrounded by little men in suits, ready to do his bidding. the vampire's lips slowly curl into a smile when he is finally granted the attention he believed he is owed. he was sure the talamasca would not be pleased to know he was there, breaching into their headquarters without a proper invitation ... but a window had been left unlocked. and santiago's curiosity, though catlike, could not get him killed any further.

he stepped down from his pedestal. a large designer bag hangs from his shoulder. pale fingers remove his dark glasses and the failed actor takes his time to look jasper up and down. the burn marks which covered him from head to toe looked beyond painful. how had a creature as clever as him found himself in such a pitiful state? santiago remembers well the last fire he had suffered through; remembered the screams of his dying coven, the red oozing flesh ... santiago scrunched his face in performative pity. "how we holding up, darling? still feelin' a bit under the weather?" he asked, nonchalantly making his way towards his injured host. there should be no reason for that man to know of his existence --- but santiago had learned plenty about the vampire jasper throughout these last few days.

"news of your little accident spread through the ether and i imagined you'd be cooped up in here, recuperating all by your lonesome, in need of some cheering up. here," he set the designer bag upon the coffee table separating the two of them. santiago unzipped it ceremoniously and, after reaching inside with both hands, like a true magician, he pulled out a large wide-eyed ragdoll cat. he set the animal on the table. watched it stretch. a little heart-shaped name tag around its' neck read romeo.

"i suppose not...a gradient perhaps."

their shoes click against the sidewalk as they take a stroll downtown. eyes as sharp as a feline take notice of the couples, kissing on street corners and the drunks, struggling to decide whether to make their way home or to an early grave. santiago turned his head to contemplate his fledgeling. he looked boyishly handsome under the flashing neon lights, which announced gin bars and twenty-four hour nightclubs and girls, girls, girls! --- santiago felt compelled to reach out and touch tom's face. to feel his cheek against the palm of his hand and to know that the satisfying coldness that he'd feel against his skin, would mean that this boy, this haunted, infuriating, remarkable boy, would remain exactly like this forever, because of him.

9. when was the last time they had a wet dream? bonus if you can describe it as much as you can in detail.

in the 21st century, i'm afraid santiago's wet dreams are a bit more alarming than back when he was with the coven in paris.

he has them once in a while, wakes up hard after dreaming of finding louis, weak and vulnerable and alone, and dousing him with gasoline. the soaked fabrics are always white in his dreams and they always cling to his slim figure. santiago is always allowed a glimpse of the flesh beneath it. always takes notices of the tightening muscles of louis' stomach, as he tries to rub the flammable liquid off his eyes. always finds beauty in the semi-transparent folds which drape over his thighs. always watches drops of sweat and gasoline become indistinguishable on the american's furrowed brow. but, not even in dreams can santiago touch him gently. in the end, he always flicks a lit match at louis. and he always watches as he becomes a great beautiful bonfire, to keep santiago warm for years to come.

i'm sure he had plenty of wet dreams back in the 40's, some more surprising than others. but santiago doesn't really remember most of them.

if you ask him, he'll always unabashedly mention one in which eglee and celeste are both on their knees fighting over who gets to suck his dick on stage. both end up pleasuring him at the same time, still competing on who can do it better while their mouths are full.

there's one particular time in which he remembers waking up breathless in his coffin, his body still tingling with pleasure, but the dream responsible had been whipped clean from his mind the moment his eyes opened. he can't think of any other time he came that hard without anyone touching him. all he knows for sure, is that this dream involved a pair of wide auburn eyes looking up at him, while breathlessly being called "maître".

this one he does not speak of.

15. tell us about their sex fantasy? things they want to try and do, but haven’t yet.

"i don't know what everyone's so upset about." the familiar voice slithers through the bookshelves, brushing past worn out covers to settle right beside louis de pointe du lac. there stood santiago with his bleached hair, perfectly on par with the strange fashion tendencies of the twenty-first century. he tilted his head to peek over his choppers sunglasses. "i liked it." one awful fingernail tapped against the copy of "the interview with the vampire" in his hand.

oh yes, he had read louis' little book of memoirs. several times, actually. and the parts in which his name was mentioned? santiago had obsessed over them, hatefully rereading each line, as if hoping the story of the theatre des vampires ( his theatre ! his story ! his coven ! his , his , his ! ) would have a different conclusion, if he flipped through the pages fast enough. but this was not the case. his coven was gone. turned into nothing but ashes, lost to the parisian winds of a century ago. all thanks to dear louis.

and don't think he did not snarl at the next few chapters, depicting the miserable married life of two snakes entwined! yes, snakes! louis, for destroying all which santiago had once had the privilege of calling home, and armand for not paying a price as high as he! he who had been just as hateful and deceitful as santiago, escaped the fire and the blade, only to go and play pretend across the world!

santiago felt the corners of his grin twitch as he gazed upon louis' face. he suddenly redirected his attention towards the book in hand. "think they'll make a movie out of your traumatic journeys through all shapes and sizes of immortal bum holes?" asked the younger vampire, casually. he fluttered his lashes as he glanced back at louis. after so many decades, the sight of him still caught santiago off guard. "or perhaps a musical! oh, fun!" he gasped, feigning excitement quite well. "i'd say i know just the company who could take that on, but ---" the vampire trailed off.

green eyes examined the other man from head to toe, judging him, drinking in all the details santiago thought he might have exaggerated throughout so many years of seething. to act nonchalant, when all he desired was to rip the man in half, was quite difficult. he flashed a big rotten smile at louis.